


Lay me on a broken bed

by mornmeril



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Setting, Alternate Universe - Omegaverse, Angst, Bonding, Enjolras wants to change the world, Friends to Lovers, Insecurities, Knotting, Lots of it, Loyalty, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi-chaptered fic, Omega!Enjolras, Oppression, Pining, Piningjolras, Plotty, Politics, Road Trip, Romance, Scenting, Secrets, Sexist Society, Silly Boys, Slow Build, Soul Bond, Stereotypes, alphas are in charge of everything, basically everything usually found in omega!verse sex, betas are poor sods, but leading up to it, but there's no sex for a while yet, cause it's me writing it, eventually anyway, if you can call it that, novel-length, of course, oh and, omegas are the poorest sods of them all, pre-Les Amis, prejudices, this is the most tags i've ever had XD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is to become the omega of the Prince (and soon to become King) of France, but would rather die than be practically enslaved. With his friends all the way back in Paris and out of reach, he finds help from an unexpected source while at the same time discovering a secret about himself that changes his life forever and puts him at even greater risk. But he has no intention of giving up and is determined to open people's eyes to their own errors and finally free the oppressed from the unjust society that alphas have created.</p><p>
  <i>“By becoming the Prince’s omega, you will one day hold the position next to the most powerful man in all of France.”<br/>“I will be nothing more than his personal breeder and you know it!"<br/>“Enjolras!” cried his mother, outraged.<br/>Enjolras raised his chin, unrepentant. “To turn one’s head away from ugliness does not make it disappear. I will not mince my words simply to spare your sensibilities - nor anyone else’s for that matter. If you wish to support these hideous customs, do not flinch from hearing them spoken aloud!”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It’s official, I have writer’s block - or at least, a writer’s block that extends to everything else I’m working on at the moment. 
> 
> So in an attempt to cure myself, I sat down and made myself write the first thing that came to my mind, which was some kind of strange mix of a few ideas that have been flying around my head on occasion. As you can see, my brain demanded I write a plotty canon era AU set in a A/B/O universe. I’ve never written in that particular ‘verse before and have been dying to try my hand at it - for those who know me a little by now, it’s probably no longer a surprise that I love trying new things :).
> 
> So anyway, that’s my excuse for this. I originally wanted to post something completely different, but it just didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to and so I gave up. No worries, I won’t have another fit and I’m trying my best not to drive myself mental all the time about my own writing. That’s also why I’m just running with what my brain threw at me and posting it on a whim. I had a surprising amount of fun writing this and kicking everything off and have every intention of continuing with this while I go on filling the prompts still on my list. Yes, I’m still on it, guys, and as soon as my writer’s block has lifted a little, I’ll post a fill. I know it’s taking ages, I’m sorry, but I want to give you sth good, so it might still take a while before I’m done with them all.
> 
> Okay, I’ll stop now. Rant over. Just one more thing. I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for their support during my recent crisis. I was absolutely blown away by how many ppl contacted me and wish to tell you that it meant the world and that I’m still sorry for the trouble I caused. AO3 made me take down the note I wrote, because apparently it’s not allowed to post anything that isn’t a proper fanworks on the site, which means I also took down the note asking for prompts - no worries, I have a copy of it and all the prompts I’m still to fill, but just in case you were wondering. Which also means that I’ll prb be spamming you even more at the beginning of my stories because I’m a horribly chatty person. I will also now refer you to my tumblr or my lj for any future announcements or prompt filling rounds. 
> 
> Oh, and I realised that I accidentally answered some of you from my personal email. I have no problem at all with you having it, just wanted to say that if you want to email me - and you’re always welcome to <3 - please stick to the mornmeril@hotmail.com address, simply for organisational reasons.
> 
> So, that’s really it now. I’m sorry, this is horrible. My A/N is almost as long as the whole chapter XD. Anyway, I hope you’re at least entertained by this. View it as a filler until something better comes along XD.
> 
> Title is from the song ['Castles' by of Verona](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2BPwiQkstg), a band I stumbled across due to [this amazing Grantaire fanvid.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2YYfzlSYRk).
> 
> Rating is Explicit overall, but there is still some way to go before anything happens.

* * *

Enjolras stared sullenly through the carriage’s window, watching the countryside outside pass him by for the twelfth day in a row. It had changed gradually and their clothes with it, replaced now by lighter garments that would keep the sweat on their brows to a minimum. Enjolras himself minded little, never having been much affected by the heat and rather preferring it to the harsh bite of winter. Even so, he thought longingly of Paris, of the city left behind which was sure to be smelling of autumn by now, completely untouched by the mild weather of the south. They were heading ever closer, each day milder than the last, but Enjolras could not enjoy it. The metaphorical noose around his neck was tightening with each mile they covered and not for the first time did Enjolras think that he would rather die, that he would rather go out in a burst of fire while still himself, as opposed to becoming the Prince’s property for the rest of his life.

Feeling equal parts enraged and desperate, Enjolras stabbed angry fingers at the knot of his cravat, seeking to loosen it and earning himself a stern look from his mother across from him. Her elaborate dress filled most of the small space of the carriage and Enjolras kicked at it with a vindictiveness he bothered not to conceal, freeing his leg and glaring at the abundance of lace as though it was at fault for the entirety of his troubles. His mother snapped shut her book and folded her delicate hands in her lap, pale and long-fingered like Enjolras’ own.

“I wish you would cease your fidgeting,” she told him, managing to sound both exasperated and lecturing. Even the jerky bouncing of her golden curls, arranged artfully on her head, managed to look indignant as she fixed Enjolras with a cold look. “You have made your views on the current situation repeatedly known and though I understand your displeasure, it will hardly help you settle into your new life. You should spend your energy on focusing on the positive side. By becoming the Prince’s omega, you will one day hold the position next to the most powerful man in all of France.”

Enjolras felt his features instantly darken to something more murderous, his forehead folding into a frown as he stared at his mother with narrowed eyes. “I will be nothing more than his personal breeder and you know it!” 

“Enjolras!” cried his mother, outraged.

Enjolras raised his chin, unrepentant. “To turn one’s head away from ugliness does not make it disappear. I will not mince my words simply to spare your sensibilities - nor anyone else’s for that matter. If you wish to support these hideous customs, do not flinch from hearing them spoken aloud!”

His mother had paled considerably and Enjolras could see her battling the instincts which had been ingrained in her since childhood, forcing her to refrain from engaging herself in an argument. She was all but squirming in her seat, torn between bowing her head with sealed lips and letting herself vent. Enjolras was aware that as the years had passed, his mother had found it increasingly difficult to hold his gaze, the abundance of defiance and his constant inner fire coupled with the fearlessness with which he spoke often had people mistaking him for an alpha until they caught a whiff of his sweet omega scent.

“I wish you would refrain from talking this way,” she said eventually, her lips pressed into a tight line that ended in an unhappy downturn at the corners of her mouth. “You know how it upsets your father - all of us. We only wish what is best for you. Any other in your position would be honoured to be the Prince’s omega.”

Enjolras stared at her, incredulous in the face of such expert self-deception. “Honoured? _Honoured_ , mother? Do you truly believe that becoming Prince Philippe’s breeder will be any different from becoming someone else's? Do you not _see_? We are all in the same, abysmal position. Each and every one of us. What does it matter what status the alpha has that we are to be chained to?”

His mother dabbed her upper lip with a laced handkerchief, before clamping trembling fingers around it. “This matter is closed, Enjolras. I do not wish to hear another word of it.”

“But it is _not closed_!” Enjolras burst forth, unable to contain himself any longer. His voice had risen, every one of his words sharp-edged with conviction and ringing true in the small space of the carriage. “This lack of equality is sickening! You, of all people, should be first in line to agree with me! Our sex has been nothing but oppressed for centuries, surely you cannot think it right, to be branded incapable of intelligent thought, incapable of learning and good for nothing but bearing children. And to be part of a society that glorifies this sort of behaviour and dominates the weak further by enforcing additional forms of power in the shape of monarchy disgusts me! How are we to be proud of being French when we are singled out in such a primitive fashion without even the benefit of doubt, when the people who rule us look out only for one another and all the others are merely there to do their bidding! Alphas may do whatever they please, meeting censure from no one while we are treated like possessions to be handed out at the appointed age only to be locked away for the rest of our lives, reduced to mindless breeding machines! Have you no pride, mother? No compassion for-”

“ _Enough!_ ” his mother cried, her voice sharp despite the distinct quiver. She seized her parasol from where it had been propped against her seat and rapped sharply at the ceiling of the carriage.

Enjolras had yet to steady his breathing form his outburst, his cheeks flushed with the passion of his speech and a hundred more words burning on his tongue. At the sight of his mother’s ashen face, however, he reined himself in with utmost difficulty and instead leapt from the carriage as soon as it came to a halt, seeking some fresh air to calm his righteous fury.

The carriage before theirs stopped as well and Enjolras glared at it, watching as his father and uncle emerged. His father took one look at him and crossed the distance between them in a few, long strides, bestowing upon Enjolras a glare which rivalled his own and was, if inspected closely, rather similar. Enjolras resented the family resemblance, wishing no familial bonds with a person supporting this primitive system of oppression. Even so, Enjolras could do nothing against the unfortunate fact that he had inherited his father’s aristocratic nose and lofty brow, as well as his mother’s delicate beauty and golden locks. His mother was referred to as an exceptional beauty and people never failed to mention that Enjolras resembled her very much. He was used to being called beautiful and it never failed to anger him; how it always came with a greedy glint in the eyes of the speaker - that or a sort of poisonous envy that was completely uncalled for. Enjolras cared little for appearances, was rather appalled by how it clouded people’s judgement, and only wished others would do the same.

“Why have we stopped?” his father demanded, casting his gaze about, no doubt looking for Enjolras’ mother, but she had not joined Enjolras outside despite being the one to have paused the journey in the first place.

Enjolras stubbornly held his silence, irritably brushing a golden curl form his eyes, which had escaped the bow at the nape of his neck. His father growled in annoyance, the sound reverberating through Enjolras’ bones as his instincts fought to instantly submit to the show of dominance. Enjolras, however, held his ground and though his hands were shaking slightly with the strain, instead of bowing his head, he raised his chin in defiance and refused to lower his gaze. His father appeared positively livid, a dark flush climbing his pale skin and Enjolras almost feared he would strike him were he stood, when the stumbling footsteps of his father’s manservant distracted him enough to regain his control.

“Wait here for me,” his father snarled at the servant, before stalking off into the direction of the carriage where his mother was still hiding. Enjolras scowled deeply and folded his arms in front of his chest, wishing nothing more than to be back home in Paris with Combeferre and Jehan.

If the Queen had not suddenly felt the need to explore the southern coastline of France and become obsessed with holding the protector’s ceremony by the sea, Enjolras would not feel the dread growing within him in such a way that left him unsettled and nauseous. There had been never any question about whether he would simply bow his head and accept his fate. Enjolras was not one to bow to anyone, despite the wild tales spun around his gender - and neither was Jehan, for that matter. Yes, they were omegas, but that did not mean they would simply roll over and do as commanded - least of all by an alpha. Enjolras had no intention at all of becoming the breeder to the Prince of France, soon to become King and resident tyrant of the country. He had never before had any qualms about voicing his opinions despite his sex or social standing and he certainly would not go against each and all of his beliefs by letting himself be dominated in such a medieval fashion. One would think that progress would have reached them by this point, but sadly that was not the case. Even so, Enjolras was not disheartened. He would not give up until he had brought change, he had sworn himself this long ago and he was not one to break promises.

The fact, however, remained that the original plan could not be executed. Combeferre and Jehan were miles away in Paris and Enjolras was trapped in such a way that fleeing would be all but impossible. Nothing short of sneaking away and stealing a horse at the next convenient possibility would save him from his fate, because even though the protector’s ceremony was no bonding, it was still far more power than Enjolras was willing to give to a brute such as Prince Philippe. He was under no illusion that he would get far without a protector, however. No unbonded omega could escape forced bonding or breeding without one, which is why Enjolras had agreed that Combeferre would fill that particular role. As his oldest and most dearest friend, he was the best choice Enjolras could make. Between them, they would have been able to protect Jehan long enough to escape Versailles and Combeferre had assured them that he had an alpha friend he trusted who was willing to take the position as Jehan’s protector for the time being.

Sadly, being spirited away by his family and the Queen had not featured in their plans of escape and Enjolras found himself growing increasingly restless. He had yet to come up with an alternate cause of action and time was growing short.

Across from him, his father’s manservant shuffled his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust and tearing Enjolras from his thoughts. He shot him a glare.

“Grantaire,” bit out Enjolras, irritated at the situation at large and ill equipped to keep it locked inside. Grantaire was merely the closest individual Enjolras could unburden some of his wrath upon and, Enjolras realised not without a twinge of regret, it was not the first time it had happened.

Ever since his father’s manservant had died of old age four years past, Grantaire had taken over. He had come recommended by one of his mother’s servants, which was probably the only reason why he had not yet been dismissed. That, and possibly because of his uncanny ability to master each and every task at the last moment, despite the air of chaos which seemed to follow him wherever he went. His father complained about him incessantly, calling him clumsy and useless, not to mention that it was an open secret that Grantaire had an affinity for drink. He seemed to be forever enveloped in the smell of sweet wine mixed in with the sharp scent of the laundress’ soap.

Despite all this, he was one of the few servants who actually fulfilled their tasks well - even though his means were sometimes questionable - and one of the things Enjolras knew his father valued most was the fact that Grantaire was no gossip and knew not to repeat anything he heard. Though Enjolras remembered his father saying that it was probably because he was dimwitted, that he was most likely unable to string three consequent sentences together and that it was just as well. Enjolras resented such statements. He did not know Grantaire very well, but had overheard him talking to his friend Eponine on more than one occasion and though he could not say that he cared much for Grantaire’s sharp mockery and the rather dark flavour of his humour, Enjolras could firmly say that the man was not unintelligent; rather that he appeared to possess more wit than most of the court combined, if Enjolras was to be the judge.

“Mon seigneur,” said Grantaire quietly, once more cutting Enjolras’ train of thought. Upon looking up, Enjolras found Grantaire regarding him with an uncharacteristically somber expression.

Enjolras frowned. “I have told you before not to call me that.”

Grantaire inclined his head, though Enjolras thought there might have been a small twitch to his lips. “As you wish, Enjolras,” he amended. A moment later, his eyes were back on Enjolras and this time there was a graveness to his face which left Enjolras squirming uneasily inside. When Grantaire spoke again, his voice was pitched low and held an unmistakable edge of urgency. 

“There is a matter of utmost importance that I must discuss with you,” said Grantaire, casting a hasty glance over Enjolras’ shoulder in clear anticipation of his father’s return, before re-fixing his gaze upon Enjolras. His eyes were very blue, Enjolras noted, a fact which had somehow escaped him before. “In private,” Grantaire went on, infusing each word with intent. “We will reach Marseille in two days. Please allow me to visit you then, after the others have retired.”

Enjolras stared at him, aghast. There was no beginning to describing how inappropriate the very suggestion of such a thing was. Even though Grantaire was a beta, just as any other person in a serving position, it was still completely unimaginable for someone other than a chaperone or family member to spend any amount of time in an unbonded omega’s presence. Not to mention in their bedchamber after nightfall.

Which was, of course, one of the reasons Enjolras instantly felt the urge to agree rising inside of him, simply for the act of defiance. He was his own man, he did not need to be watched like a naughty child in danger of sticking their fingers into the biscuit tin. And if the general air of urgency around Grantaire was any indication, it must indeed be vital to Grantaire that he speak to him and Enjolras was not about to deny him.

 “I will leave my door unlocked,” said Enjolras quietly, then fixed Grantaire with a fierce look. “I do not need to stress that discretion is of the essence in this venture. Do not let yourself be seen.”

Grantaire’s gaze did not leave him, his look level and shining with an honesty Enjolras had never seen before on his face. “I will not disappoint you.”

For a moment, Enjolras cast about for a response, severely disconcerted by the display, but when a somewhat appropriate reply had finally been found, his father’s arrival cut it short.

“Return to your mother,” he barked at Enjolras. “And should I hear of you having distressed her again, I will not let it slide so easily. Am I understood?”

Enjolras tightened his jaw and refused to bow once more, though this time he forced forth a terse “Yes, father.”

His father gave a sharp nod, before turning sharply on his heel.

“Grantaire,” he said imperiously and Grantaire bowed to him obediently, though as he turned to follow he stole one last look at Enjolras, who looked back at him with a frown. It was to be their last exchange until Grantaire came to fulfil his ominous promise.

*

Two nights later found Enjolras pacing his room impatiently.

The rest of the journey had been uneventful and Enjolras had done his best to hold his tongue, instead forcefully investing himself in the books he had brought and wondering feverishly about the nature of Grantaire’s visit. What could his father’s manservant possibly have to tell him that was so important and required such an amount of secrecy? They hardly knew each other, after all, and Enjolras doubted they had ever exchanged more than a handful of words in the entire time since Grantaire had come to Versailles and entered his father’s service. 

Enjolras had been mere months away from turning fourteen when Grantaire had come to court and he remembered him being present when the result of his second test had been announced - another outdated practice the Queen refused to part with. Each newborn underwent a test to determine their gender, the feat a hard one when hormones and scent glands had yet to form. If the child tested positive as an omega, it was to be tested again after reaching their fourteenth birthday to ensure fertility before continuing to receive ‘appropriate schooling’. Should an omega have the misfortune to be infertile - and therefore seen as useless in the face of society - they were instead given to a pleasure house to receive ‘education’ there instead of regular omega schooling. The injustice of it all turned Enjolras’ stomach and he felt an involuntary shudder race through his body at the thought of being handed over to a whorehouse without even a glimmer of a better future somewhere on the horizon.

As an unbonded omega, Enjolras was not permitted to go anywhere without an escort and spent most of his time locked away with his fellow omegas at Versailles, being taught inane subjects without substance that revolved around nothing but proper etiquette and how best to please one’s alpha. Before Jehan, and with Combeferre being taught by different teachers, Enjolras had used to keep the company of Marius Pontmercy. Marius, however, had suddenly disappeared seemingly overnight three years ago, which had become the most hushed up scandal the French court had seen in a decade. His grandfather, Seigneur de Gillenormand, had aged more in the past three years than the ten before that, but Marius was not to be found and the circumstances around him vanishing an utter mystery.

Enjolras had been upset, of course, but he had also been powerless. Marius had told neither him nor Combeferre anything prior to his disappearance and left no letter or note. There was nothing else to be done until Enjolras was finally free of Versailles and his family and could dedicate himself to looking for his friend. 

In the same year Marius had disappeared, Jehan and his family had moved to Versailles and Jehan had joined the omega classes. Enjolras had found it impossible not to like him and they had become fast friends ever since. Meeting Combeferre had become increasingly difficult as all of them inched closer to adulthood, but neither of them had given up on their friendship and soon they would be able to spend as much time with each other as they pleased. If Enjolras managed his escape, in any case, which, loathe as he was to admit it, looked rather bleak with every day that went by.

Tomorrow there was to be a ball in honour of the Queen’s arrival and the day after the preparations for the ceremony would start. The ceremony itself was to be held at the end of the week, after which they were to return to Paris. That gave Enjolras no more than three days, not counting the day of the actual ceremony, and he was no closer to a solution than before.

And if this was not enough, now he here he was, fretting over a night time visit by Grantaire of all people, which, should his family ever find out, had the possibility of ending rather nastily for both of them - though Enjolras was hardly naive enough not to realise that should they be discovered, Grantaire would be the one shouldered with the entirety of the blame.

It was ridiculous, of course. All prejudice aside, the likelihood of a beta accosting an omega was slim to none and Grantaire had never given any indication that he intended to endanger Enjolras’ virtue - and even if he did, Enjolras was quite capable of protecting it on his own.

 _Except that you are not_ , a little voice chose that moment to whisper somewhere in the very back of his mind. If he were so very capable, he would not have need of a protector at all, the very fact of which had Enjolras burning with shameful indignation. The thought of needing anyone at all, of the stories about being incomplete fed to every omega from infancy onwards holding even the smallest grain of truth, made Enjolras’ skin crawl.

And it was not merely the omegas who suffered beneath this alpha dominated world. Yes, they were by far the most oppressed, but betas were often disregarded entirely and their bonds dismissed as pale imitation of the one shared by an alpha and his omega. Betas were under-appreciated. They were used as place-fillers and servants, handed out the tasks and positions alphas thought themselves superior for. Unable to pro-create and stamped off as docile and good-natured, betas had no way of rising within society and were forever stuck as the invisible gender.

Enjolras was as outraged by this as everything else. If only the people were to open their eyes, if they would just see past all these endless prejudices which had been built over centuries, then they would realise that every individual was exactly that. And individual. 

There were no boxes labelled with this and that, where one was to be stuffed into and locked away forever. Alphas were not all power-hungry brutes, omegas not merely mindless breeding machines and betas not simply bumbling fools to be paid attention to only when the occasion called for it. And bonding was not something reserved for alphas and omegas, but a base right between consenting adults no matter their gender and without censure from the rest of the world. If alphas were to spend less time forcefully bonding cowed omegas, they might have a chance to see that and expand their horizon beyond the aggressive, unbending line drawn by society. 

When the sound of the door handle turning quietly finally reached his ears, Enjolras’ muscles were tense as a bow sting and his legs stilled for the first time since retiring to his rooms. He had left the door unlocked as promised and there was but one candle left burning at his bedside, carefully angled so the glow would not be seen underneath the door. Enjolras had yet to change into his nightclothes, unwilling to receive Grantaire in anything less than his shirtsleeves.

He watched as Grantaire stole hastily inside, silently closing the door behind him and remaining pressed against it as though the smallest movement further into the room would have Enjolras fearing for his safety. It sent a sharp spark of irritation through him. He was no spooked horse in need of reassurance and Grantaire should know by now that should he feel uncomfortable at any point, he would have no qualms about informing him of it.

“Thank you for trusting me,” said Grantaire in lieu of a greeting, his stance remaining relaxed and unthreatening.

Enjolras scowled, his nerves increasingly frayed with the amount of worry weighing on his shoulders these past few weeks. He had no other outlet but anger, for if he was to cave he would end up weeping instead and he rather feared himself unable to stop should he start. No, this was no time to indulge in self-pity. He would hear what Grantaire had to say and then move on to ponder his next step. Giving up was not an option.

“Tell me what you came here to say,” Enjolras demanded, impatience turning his voice sharper than intended. Grantaire however, did not appear fazed by his tone.

“Mon seigneur- Enjolras,” Grantaire amended quickly as Enjolras shot him a sharp look of censure at the form of address. “I wish there was a better way for what I am about to disclose to you, but I fear I have neither the time nor the eloquence to soften the blow. You have to believe me, however, that I am sincere when I say that I do not wish to upset you.”

There was this earnest look again and Enjolras swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He steeled himself, reining in his thoughts and raising his chin as he straightened to his full height - which was rather considerable for an omega.

“Just tell me,” snapped Enjolras, tired of circling the subject and unwilling to let dread pool in his stomach before having all the information.

Grantaire licked his lips, a nervous gesture underlined by the way he shuffled his feet. “I know not if you remember, but I came into your father’s service not long before your fourteenth birthday.”

Enjolras frowned, taken aback by the turn the conversation was taking. “I do remember.”

“The second test, I-” Grantaire swallowed once more and ducked his head, refusing to meet Enjolras’ gaze. “As your father’s manservant I had access to the result and I…manipulated it.”

Enjolras stared at him, his jaw threatening to slacken in surprise. “ _What?_ ” it came out as a rather inelegant gasp.

Grantaire’s eyes flickered back off the floor and came to rest on Enjolras with the same, unwavering honesty that was slowly becoming a familiar expression. 

“I did it to protect you,” he said quietly. “If anyone found out-” Grantaire trailed off, a pinched look on his face.

“Found out _what_?” demanded Enjolras, chest tight and hardly containing his wildly beating heart.

Grantaire passed a shaking hand through his wild hair and did not look at Enjolras for a moment.

“It was negative,” the words were so soft Enjolras almost missed them. Grantaire sucked in a sharp breath and visibly steeled himself, his voice firming as he clarified. “Your second test, it was negative.”

The shock could not have sat any deeper, not even had the ground suddenly burst open to swallow him whole. For a time, Enjolras feared he might never be able to speak again and when he finally did, it was weak, his throat hardly cooperating, and he did not recognise the voice as his own.

“You mean…” Enjolras trailed off, the final word burning his tongue as his lips refused to form it.

 _Infertility_. 

It hung between them like a an executioner’s axe, poised in the air and waiting to fall with the finality reserved for the times in life that brought with them change so profound that one was to wonder how they had lived at all, until this point.

There was a pained twist to Grantaire’s mouth. “Yes.”

Enjolras stared at him, unseeing, as he felt his world tilt on its head. It was as if everything had chosen to crash over him this very moment, everything he had been struggling with bore down on him like the ocean did a cliff, only that Enjolras was not made of stone, as much as he wished he was, and he stumbled beneath the onslaught. His knees gave and his vision swam, dark creeping in at the edges.

Warm hands caught him, closing around his elbows and guiding him backwards and onto the bed, depositing him safely on the edge. Enjolras blinked, then blinked again and took a deep breath, his eyes slowly refocusing. He found Grantaire kneeling at his feet, leaning against the bed, his fingertips ten gentle, grounding pressure points against his arms. Enjolras could not bring himself to dislodge them for fear of losing himself once more.

“Who else knows?” he asked, voice strained and unsteady, still.

Grantaire’s fingers tightened the smallest fraction and his blue eyes bored deeply into Enjolras’ own. “Not a soul, I swear it.”

Enjolras inclined his head in a nod, forcing his lungs into something resembling a regular breathing pattern once more. The ability to form coherent thought was returning, albeit slowly.

“Why have you not informed me of this sooner?” asked Enjolras.

Grantaire sighed and released him, though made no move to rise. “I thought there was little point in causing you distress and-”

Enjolras’ temper flared. “I am no damsel in need of protection!”

Grantaire pursed his lips and, once more, showed no averse reaction to Enjolras’ sharpness. It aided Enjolras in reining in his unfounded anger and he fought to regain control over himself.

“I realise this,” said Grantaire gently. “But you were young, still, and telling you would have achieved nothing.”

“And now?” asked Enjolras. “Why are you telling me now?”

Grantaire let more of his weight rest against the bed, draping his bent arm onto the mattress in an almost casual manner. “Because I know you wish no part in this charade and even if you did, no one must ever know about your situation.”

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling an ache creep in from the back all across to his temples and ending in a dull, throbbing pain. “What do you suggest, then?”

Grantaire regarded him carefully. “I know you had plans with your friend, Combeferre. And Jean Prouvaire. Unfortunately, they are both rather far away at this moment and I will have to offer my humble services instead.”

Enjolras lowered his hand. “You wish to help me?” the words slipped out before the rest of what Grantaire had said caught up with him. He frowned. “Wait, how did you know about my plans with Combeferre and Jehan?”

Grantaire waved a hand, as if to brush away the question.

“I am rather more observant than people give me credit for, but it is of no consequence.”

Enjolras begged to differ and he silently raised his estimations concerning Grantaire’s intelligence a few considerable notches. It seemed his father had not been the only one to underestimate him.

“And of course I wish to help you,” Grantaire went on, his words turning dryer, if no less honest, as a sardonic smile twisted his lips. “Or do you think I kept your secret all this time to see you ruined?”

Enjolras scowled at him, not at all pleased at the appearance of Grantaire’s darker side. It had never before been directed at him directly, but Enjolras had seen it more than a few times in the presence of Eponine. It made it even harder to pin down the finer points of his character, it was utterly unnerving.

“I do not understand,” said Enjolras, attempting to hide his tiredness and confusion behind a frown. “Why are you doing this?”

Grantaire regarded him intently for a moment, but as much as Enjolras looked back, he could not decipher the thoughts behind his blue eyes. Just as he could not decipher the rest of him and it made him want to all the more.

“Because it is right,” said Grantaire finally and though Enjolras did not disagree with the sentiment, it was rather disappointing as far as answers went and did nothing to dampen his curiosity.

Enjolras wished to question him further, but could not find the right words to do so and Grantaire spoke again before Enjolras could attempt to form them.

“I have made a few turns about the palace to familiarise myself with it. It is unlikely we will be able to simply walk through the main entrance, so we will have to use the back corridors. You will make your appearance at the ball tomorrow and once everyone is occupied with the preparations for the ceremony we should leave as soon as possible. I have seen to it that there is a bag in the stables, already packed and ready, should we need to make a hasty exit. I would rather we not, but sometimes plans do not proceed as expected and it eases my mind to have a back-up.” Grantaire flashed him a smile and it immediately brightened his entire face, throwing Enjolras’ train of thought slightly off track, before vanishing again as quickly as it had come. “Be on your guard, either way, and,” he hesitated for a moment, voice and eyes both turning gentle as he finished. “Say what goodbyes you wish to say.”

Enjolras gave a terse nod, refusing to show that he was at all affected at the prospect of leaving his family behind. It had to be done and so he would do it. If they would not save him from this fate, he would have to save himself.

It was only a moment later, when Enjolras went over again what had been said, that he realised something.

“Wait,” he said, feeling the familiar pulling on his forehead as it folded into a frown. “You said yourself that Combeferre is out of our reach at this time, but surely you know I cannot travel without a protector. We will make no way at all before we are accosted.”

Grantaire found a sudden interest in the bedding, even going so far as to trace a finger across a laced end. “I realise this must be an inconvenience, but you will have to allow me to take your friend’s place until we are in Paris.”

Enjolras tore his eyes from Grantaire’s finger and instead raised his his gaze to stare at him. “My friend’s-” he said, bewildered, breaking off as his thoughts caught up with his mouth. “But you cannot- Grantaire, you are a beta, you cannot form the required bond of protection.”

Grantaire gave him one of his honest looks and it made something in Enjolras’ chest tighten for some peculiar reason. 

“You will find that I can,” said Grantaire quietly, intently. “I will protect you and deliver you safely to your friends in Paris, should you allow it.” He paused, a sudden glint in his eye as he bared his teeth. “For I am no beta.”

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, this was meant to have been out at the beginning of the week, but Enjolras and Grantaire had other ideas XD. Stuff's going down, though, so I hope that makes up for the wait!
> 
> To whoever's following _You and I go hard_ : if everything goes to plan, there should be an update tomorrow.
> 
>  **Please note that I added a warning tag for violence** , which this chapter contains some of already. There won't be any outright gore, but there's going to be quite a few fights throughout and I thought it best to add the tag.
> 
> There's an **assault of a sexual nature** in this chapter, so consider yourself warned. It's mostly disturbing imagery, but also some actual violence, though nothing that involves the removal of clothing. 
> 
> And before you freak out, let me give you these words of comfort on the way: I'm a sap and no matter what happens, it's all going to be okay in the end!

* * *

The words hung in the air between them, repeating themselves in Enjolras’ mind without comprehension. Grantaire waited patiently, his kneeling position putting his claims into even starker contrast.

“You are an alpha?” said Enjolras, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Truly, you would have me believe this?”

Grantaire did not waver. “I would not lie to you.” His words and gaze were infused with earnestness and it filled Enjolras’ chest with an unbidden warmth, shortening his breath in a way which forced him to inhale deeply.

“But your scent,” said Enjolras sharply. “If what you say is true, surely someone would have taken note of it!”

Grantaire tilted his head, a small movement which drew Enjolras’ gaze instantly. It was a gesture no alpha would normally allow themselves and Enjolras was hard pressed to ignore the evidence in front of him. His baser instincts were demanding he bend his own knees, his nose itching to press to the scent glands at Grantaire’s neck and find out the truth for himself, inexplicably drawn to the gentle curve of his throat. The room was suddenly much warmer and Enjolras had trouble keeping his fingers from tugging at his already collarless shirt.

“I practise utmost caution and self-control,” said Grantaire, his lips turning into a crooked line as they formed another sharp smile. “Not everyone is so inept at reining in their pheromones as the Prince.”

Enjolras scowled at the mention of Prince Philippe, barely suppressing a shudder at the thought of his overbearing scent which never failed to twist Enjolras’ stomach.  Enjolras had never suffered alpha pheromones well, his rebellious nature instinctively fighting their forceful attempts at cowing him and stunning him into obedience. When Enjolras had been a child, he had often been unable to keep from emptying his stomach when his father had been especially harsh in his assertion of dominance. While this extreme reaction was no longer a common occurrence, Enjolras was still intimately familiar with the feeling of nausea that came with the domineering presence of an alpha and had no doubt that should one insist on flooding him with their pheromones, he would end up much like the child of old; on his knees, shaking as he retched helplessly with the acid taste of bile flooding his mouth.

“Philippe is an arrogant cur and has been spoiled beyond belief,” said Enjolras, his thoughts briefly derailed.

Grantaire bared his teeth once more, one of the few gestures Enjolras could reconcile with his claim of being an alpha.

“You will not hear me contradict such a statement,” he said, the tone holding a familiar dryness.

Enjolras regarded Grantaire intently, still kneeling on the floor at Enjolras’ feet while Enjolras himself sat perched on the bedside.

He was an enigma, falling so far beyond the strict parameters Enjolras had laid out for himself over the years that it was truly dizzying. Grantaire did not belong amongst the ones who wished to subdue him, nor did he seem intimidated or uncomfortable. He met Enjolras’ gaze unflinchingly, neither dominating nor dominated.

“I had rather wished you would not have me do this, but I fear it will be necessary,” Grantaire went on, visibly displeased. “I can deliver proof of my honesty, should you wish.” 

Enjolras could not suppress an instinctive flare of alarm. “Proof?” he questioned sharply.

“You raised the subject of my scent and I cede to your point. I understand how it must seem confusing, so I suggest a demonstration.” Grantaire paused to cast another of his damned earnest looks and Enjolras feared that he was on his best way to trusting it blindly whenever it appeared. “Do you permit it?” 

Enjolras did not reply immediately, even as the answer was already burning on his tongue. Instead he took a moment to gather his wits and calm his frayed nerves. It was rather a lot to take in in one sitting and Enjolras did not quite feel back up to par just yet. Aware that he was about to give an alpha permission to assert his dominance, Enjolras rose on still slightly weak legs and straightened to his full height before he finally spoke again.

“Yes.”

Something flickered through Grantaire’s eyes, but Enjolras was slowly becoming accustomed to the inability to read him. It did not stop him from trying, nor make accepting failing any easier.

Grantaire rose slowly, though his movements were fluid and very much unlike his usual drunken stumblings. Enjolras narrowed his eyes, wondering not for the first time how much of what Grantaire allowed the world to see was indeed true and how much was an act - an expertly executed act, but an act nonetheless.

When he finally stood before Enjolras, he was closer than expected and Enjolras felt his fingers curling towards his palms as he held his ground. Grantaire was not a tall man, several inches, in fact, shorter than Enjolras, but at this moment it hardly seemed to matter. The air between them had shifted and Enjolras was unable to turn his gaze away, the blue of Grantaire’s eyes fixing him in place and robbing him of the breath in his lungs.

Enjolras had had more than his fair share of encounters with alphas before, of harsh, bitter pheromones clogging his thoughts and forcefully seizing control until nausea wrenched throughout his body, knotting his stomach and leaving him trembling.

But this, this was different. It was slow and sweet; it was seductive and _dangerous_ merely for the fact that Enjolras wanted so badly to give in. Grantaire’s scent was heady and lacked the usual vile undertone. It did not leave an unpleasant taste on Enjolras’ tongue, rather a sweetness that he had always thought was only associated with omegas. Instead of the familiar oppression, it enveloped his mind delicately and the tremble of his muscles was not of disgust or strain, but a slow shiver of pleasure.

For the first time in his memory, Enjolras felt his head incline willingly, dropping out of its proud tilt and bowing far enough to send several stray locks forward, brushing his brow. Their gaze remained unbroken and Enjolras felt the need to lean closer, to negate the space left between them, to-

Grantaire blinked, severing their connection, and retreated several steps; leaving the lingering traces of his scent, but visibly shutting down.

Enjolras wavered on his feet for the second time that night and sought to steady himself by clasping the closest pillar of his four-poster bed. Had his pride allowed it, he would have sank back down to sit once more.

His face was flushed hot with colour and his breath had yet to calm, still bursting from him unevenly as his heart thrummed wildly against his ribs. Enjolras’ knuckles turned white against the dark wood of the bed-post as he did his best to gather his tattered composure around himself once more. It proved a harder feat than expected beneath Grantaire’s careful gaze.

“Forgive me” said Grantaire.

Enjolras released the bed-post, though his hand was not yet steady as he brushed back his hair and inhaled a deep breath.

“Your scent, you have masked it.” It was not a question, for the answer was clear in the fact that Grantaire had managed to fool the entire court. “How? If it was a feat so lightly achieved, many more of us would do so. Unless…” Enjolras trailed off, eyes widening as he fought the urge to grab the post once more, or rather, to close his fingers around Grantaire’s arm. “I have heard of certain tinctures sold by questionable sources which are said suppress certain aspects of ones nature. Though Combeferre assures me they are highly dangerous and bring with them far more trouble than they do benefit. Please tell me you have not dabbled with such things.”

The words were no plea, rather held the firm edge of command. Insecurity did not sit well with Enjolras and had the habit of igniting his temper all the quicker. His self-assurance, his fire, were the things which strengthened him, weapons to be wielded alongside his words in order to be heard and acknowledged. Losing either left Enjolras with attack as his only defence.

Grantaire remained unshaken. “I have not.” His tone was almost mild, though the quirk of his lips sharp rather than reassuring. “Trouble follows me easily enough, I tend not to seek it out myself. Or at least I try not to. You need not look so incensed, I’m no supporter of these tinctures. Your friend Combeferre was right to warn you, especially as omegas tend to react rather more poorly to them. They interfere with heat cycles and are highly addictive. So you see, it is an ugly business one does best to avoid.”

Enjolras could not keep from grimacing involuntarily at the mention of heat cycles and Grantaire cast him a knowing look, though thankfully refrained from commenting on the matter.

“Will you answer my question?” said Enjolras irritably. Patience had never been his strongest suit and the hour had grown late, leaving him exhausted in the face of such prodigious revelations. Not to mention the alarming range of emotions he had so recently experienced.

“I shall, if it pleases you,” said Grantaire with ease. “But I fear it will only disappoint. There is no great mystery hidden in this. As stated before, I know to restrain myself and I wash myself and my clothes with a sharp soap the laundresses have so kindly provided me with. Also, undoubtedly, some stories about my drunken exploits must have reached you. Whatever you might have heard, it is most likely true,” he paused to bare his teeth once more. “Alcohol goes a long way in masking ones scent.”

Enjolras thought of the sharp, clean smell mixed with the scent of sweet wine that constantly enveloped Grantaire and felt the pieces slowly fall into place.

“Who else knows about this?”

Grantaire lifted his shoulders in an unconcerned gesture. “I have friends outside Versailles who are aware of my nature. And Eponine, of course, for she is my dearest friend.”

“You chose a life of servitude when you could so easily rise in the ranks of society,” said Enjolras quietly, unable to keep the intrigue from his tone. “Why?”

“I’m devoid of ambition.”

Enjolras frowned, exasperated. “You skirt my questions.”

Grantaire’s lips twitched, but it was a bitter smile that left his eyes and expression dark. “Then do not ask after things that are unanswerable.”

Enjolras let loose a huff of frustration, torn between anger and the urge to further explore the mystery of Grantaire’s character. Somewhere on the lower level of the palace, a clock struck midnight, taking the decision from Enjolras’ hands.

Grantaire glanced at the door, before returning his eyes to Enjolras. “I must go,” he said. “The hour has grown late. I shall return tomorrow after the ball to further discuss our plans. A map would also not go amiss. I have a route planned mentally, but I welcome the visual help.”

Enjolras tucked a curl behind his ear which insisted on springing forth and nodded. “I shall provide a map.”

Silence stretched between them for several long moments and Enjolras found himself unable to put his feelings into words for the first time. It was severely unsettling, much as the entire exchange between himself and Grantaire. Enjolras knew not what any of it meant, knew not what to make of it.

“Grantaire,” he began, though inwardly he was still seeking for an appropriate turn of phrase. When it did not come, Grantaire’s name remained suspended between them, heavy with things unsaid.

Even so, some must have reached Grantaire, for he gave his first sincere smile. It was slow and sweet, very much like his scent.

“Worry not,” he said gently and Enjolras wanted very much to touch him. He clenched his hands to fists instead. “I promised I would help you and though you might think my word counts for little, I stand by my promises.”

Enjolras swallowed, then uttered the first uncomplicated thought that sprang to mind.

“Be careful.”

Grantaire’s smile turned sharp, though his eyes did not. “I shall try my best.”

*

Despite his efforts to the contrary, the next morning found Enjolras ill rested and in bad humour, which he did nothing to conceal at either breakfast or luncheon. His mother was clearly displeased, but did not seek another argument, clearly wary of having matters escalate once more and not wanting to present Enjolras with an excuse to expand on his ‘harebrained ideas’. His father did his utmost to glare him down with a viciousness that left Enjolras’ stomach roiling with nausea and squishing the last bit of his appetite.

Even so, Enjolras did his best to be obedient and give no one cause to suspect he might be up to something. He silently endured the presence of one of his mother’s maids as his chaperone and pointedly settled down in one of the the drawing rooms with a book, where he remained throughout most of the day displaying himself as a good little omega awaiting their soon-to-be protector. He spoke little and did less, restricting himself to his books.

Throughout it all, it appeared that Grantaire was never far. It seemed now that Enjolras was aware of him, truly aware, it was impossible to ignore him. He was present at meals, of course, standing a few steps behind his father’s chair, and in the times between he was seen either following his father to and fro or helping the lower servants with the preparations for the Queen’s arrival. Every time Grantaire passed through the room, Enjolras felt that familiar tingling crawling up his spine and had to bite his lip in an effort to keep from seeking his gaze.

Even so, their eyes still managed to meet, locking surreptitiously behind his father’s back or over the head of Enjolras’ absentminded chaperone. It ended mostly in Enjolras glaring back at Grantaire, desperately trying to cover how very unsettled these exchanges left him. Heat threatened to flush his cheeks each time, made only worse at the occasional flash of Grantaire’s teeth as his lips twisted into the same sharp grin he had displayed in Enjolras’ rooms.

Despite the book in his hands, Enjolras spent little of his time actually reading, instead using it as a cover to reflect upon his conversation with Grantaire the previous evening.

The news concerning his fertility had entirely blindsided him, though the longer Enjolras pondered the matter, the more it started to make sense. 

Enjolras still vividly recalled how worried his mother had been when his first heat had come almost six months late, later even than her own she had told him. Combeferre had also worried and Enjolras realised that he might have suspected something even then, though with the positive result of the second test, there had thankfully been no reason for anyone to believe that Enjolras was different.

The first heat usually occurred within a few days of the omega’s fourteenth birthday, starting off a cycle where the omega then experienced a heat every other month for ten days, which marked the only fertile periods. First heats were weak and hardly incapacitating, growing in strength with every cycle until full maturity was reached at the age of eighteen from which point on an omega was strongly advised to bond. Protection bonds were common and mostly popular between the ages of sixteen and twenty-four, often practiced between close friends to ensure an omega’s safety. The only reason the Queen had insisted on a protection ceremony between Enjolras and Philippe was to support tradition and as an excuse for an additional festivity. Enjolras would turn eighteen within the month and the bonding was to be held exactly on his birthday, another archaic custom.

According to his mother, fertility had never run high within her side of the family. A fact reflected in his mother, who had been unable to conceive any children after Enjolras, much to his father’s disappointment. Every alpha desired alpha offspring in order to pass on their legacy and Enjolras knew that he was the opposite of what his father had wished for.

Though unpleasant, most bonds were breakable and his father would have been within his right as an alpha to seek a new mate after his omega failed to provide him with the desired heir, but his father had never taken advantage of that fact. It was the only thing Enjolras found admirable about him and though it was a small comfort, the knowledge that his father must hold true affection for his mother was a welcome one.

Infertility however…Enjolras inwardly shuddered as his thoughts turned towards what life in a pleasure house must be like. A fate he apparently had only barely escaped, solely thanks to Grantaire. Enjolras had not the slightest notion how he was ever to repay this sort of devotion, but he was sure never to forget it as long as he lived. For now, all Enjolras could do was to reward it by offering his own loyalty and though trust did not come easily to him, with Grantaire it seemed no effort at all.

*

By the time dusk had fallen, Enjolras’ nerves were once more frayed and his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. He dreaded little more than being forced into the presence of the overbearing Prince once more, fighting to avoid being touched by his greedy hands which left Enjolras’ skin crawling as Philippe continually enforced his dominance.

The palace was aflutter now that the news of the Queen’s arrival had reached every inhabitant and Enjolras was soon whisked away to his rooms and fussed over by his mother and her entire troupe of maids. After stuffing him into a ridiculous amount of ornate clothing, they attacked his hair without mercy, accentuating his curls and tying it with an elaborate bow which brushed the nape of his neck in such a way to leave it irritated and itching.

Enjolras wished nothing more than to yank off his expensive clothes and burn each and every article to ash, foremost the hateful bow in his hair. He felt like a doll, like a horse to be paraded around at a fair, charming its buyer and leaving everyone else envious on having to miss out. It was disgusting and he felt dirty for it, drawing on the very last reserves of his self-control to keep from exploding spectacularly.

“Now,” his mother told him sternly as he was finally deemed ready, fiddling with his cravat. Enjolras recoiled, swatting away her hands and turning a thunderous glare upon her that thankfully made her fall back a step. “Remember to behave yourself. Do no speak if not spoken to and for god’s sake, refrain from voicing any of those dreadful opinions of yours.”

Enjolras pressed together his lips and his fingers curled towards his palms, ten half-moons biting into his skin as his nails sank in. The pain did little to clear the red haze of anger creeping in from the corners of his vision.

His mother sighed and brought her fingers to her temple, as though suffering a terrible headache. “Do stop scowling, Enjolras. What is your betrothed to think if this is the way you greet him?”

Enjolras’ expression darkened. “The Prince is incapable of empathy,” he said, not without the bite of bitterness. “Even were I to collapse weeping at his feet would he not spare any thought to my comfort, so I doubt he will notice my form of greeting.”

“Enjolras.” The reprimand came in the form of another sigh instead of a sharper tone and Enjolras, for all his displeasure, felt bad about giving his mother grief.

“Worry not, mother,” said Enjolras darkly. “I shall save my tears and keep my silence. But do not ask me to do it with a smile.”

No reply followed this admission. His mother delicately pressed his still clenched hand, before leading him from the room. His father was already awaiting them, checking his pocket-watch impatiently and snapping it shut upon catching sight of Enjolras. He seized him up and Enjolras, as was his wont, kept his head aloft throughout.

“The honour of our family rests with you, son,” said his father, casting upon Enjolras a severe look. “Do not disappoint us.”

Enjolras’ only answer came in the form of a glare and nothing more was said as they made their way towards the main ballroom.

Grantaire and his mother’s handmaiden joined them at the bottom of the stairs and Enjolras exchanged a quick look with him, before fixing his eyes forward once more. Even so, Enjolras thought he could see an underlaying tension in Grantaire’s expression. He had not the time to ponder on it, however, for is attention was soon demanded in the form of reining in his temper at the sight of the fellow nobles of the Queen’s court.

The Queen herself was already seated at the head of the room along with her omega, Princess Marguerite. Philippe was not yet present, which was not an uncommon occurrence as the Prince’s aversion for formal banquets was no secret. He much rather preferred the company of his raucous friends as they gathered to either hold rampant parties at Philippe’s private quarters or indulged in frivolous activities such as racing and losing copious amounts of money on betting and gambling. Enjolras was also relatively certain that most of the more exclusive pleasure houses were funded almost solely by Philippe and his friends. It was utterly vile.

Queen Annette was as severe as she was beautiful, her hair as dark as her eyes and her expression perpetually set in stone. Enjolras could recall not one occasion where a smile had ever graced her heart-shaped lips, which were forever pressed tightly together. Princess Marguerite, in contrast, was as plain as the Queen was beautiful; her hair a mousy brown and her eyes pale and doe-like, slightly too big for her delicate face. They apparently gave her an air of innocence that Enjolras had often heard referred to as sweet. He had never heard her speak in all his years as court.

Enjolras and his family paid their respects to the Queen, who accepted them with a nod and waved them on their way. Enjolras straightened from his bow and watched his uncle and father do the same, the latter helping his mother rise from her curtsey. His uncle offered Enjolras his arm and Enjolras took it with a glower, letting himself be led deeper into the ballroom. 

The servants had outdone themselves, lavishing an amount of splendour upon the room which left Enjolras deeply resentful. All these elaborate bouquets, the abundance of food, it would all go to waste by the end of the evening while there were other, less fortunate souls who could not effort to eat at all. And for what? For a selfish Queen with an even more selfish son who hardly even took note of it, had no concept of the work all these people had put into the preparations and did not stop to think that entire families could be saved if only they at least considered giving away the leftover food.

But Enjolras wore the mask of cold arrogance well and had had a lifetime of practice in associating with the high class. He kept his promise, speaking only when spoken to and restricting his answers to the shortest possible responses still within the boundaries of politeness. He obediently handed over his dance card when asked and was silently glad for the opportunity to pass the time in such a fashion and thus saved from having to apply himself in senseless conversation, most of which revolved around the Prince and the upcoming protection ceremony.

Philippe himself arrived barely an hour before midnight, breezing into the room tailed by his cousin and his two closest friends. He was tall, though not overly so, very close to Enjolras’ own height. Most of his features were inherited from the Queen except for the pale colour of his eyes. Unlike Princess Marguerite, however, they did not look innocent on him, but had a flinty glint that fitted with his general air of arrogance and downright cruelty.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Enjolras watched Grantaire’s spine stiffen and his gaze locking onto the Prince, following his pursuit across the room and towards Enjolras with a hard look.

“Dear Enjolras, you are radiant as always,” said Philippe upon reaching Enjolras’ side, seizing his hand and kissing it with unnecessary flourish. Enjolras curled his lip in disgust. “Come, now. I’m already most dreadfully bored, you must entertain me! A dance, I should say,” went on the Prince, the pungent smell of his pheromones already seeking to bear down upon Enjolras and twisting his stomach. “And then we shall make a turn about the room. My mother insists and I have not the inclination to suffer all by myself.”

Enjolras ground together his teeth, but swallowed the words burning on his tongue and feigned obedience. He knew to pick his battles and this one was a lost cause from the onset. There was no use in protesting and Enjolras would rather keep the nausea at a manageable level, knowing that he would have to endure it for several hours still.

And so he let himself be led onto the dance floor yet again and fought to suppress a shudder of revulsion as Philippe’s possessive hand grabbed his hip, where it remained even after the dance had ended as he led him about the room.

Prince Philippe, despite his claims of boredom, was in high spirits and, incidentally, very soon high on spirits. Enjolras bore his company with the utmost difficulty and was fighting a rising migraine combined with the ever-intensifying scent seeking to squash his will into mindless pliancy. It was, of course, the height of discourtesy for an alpha to flaunt themselves in such a way, but Philippe was not a man accustomed at being denied anything and cared little for social etiquette.

The fellow alphas of the court knew to keep out of his way and everyone else was considered inconsequential in any case. The Queen was the only person in France that Philippe paid any heed to and she seemed entirely comfortable with letting her son do as he pleased - which was the reason he had grown into such a despicable brute in the first place.

After a few more hours of this excruciating torture, nausea had painted Enjolras’ face with a sickly pallor, providing him with an excellent reason to excuse himself to his rooms.

“Surely you cannot mean to leave me!” Philippe exclaimed, his tone not unlike a child about to be rid of their favourite toy.

Enjolras made no effort to mask his glare. “Forgive me, but I must retire. I fear I have taken ill.”

Philippe sniffed. “I rather hope you don’t prove as delicate in all areas.”

Cheeks flooding with a mortified flush at the lewd implication, Enjolras clenched his hands to fists in a desperate attempt to conceal their shaking as anger ripped through his chest.

“Well,” Philippe went on, waving an unconcerned hand. “Let me then, at least, see you safely to your quarters.”

Alarm stiffened Enjolras’ spine. “I thank you for your concern,” he bit out. “But that will not be necessary.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Philippe as he once more took hold of Enjolras’ hand, ignoring the way it was still clenched and did so further at his touch. “It is my duty as your future bonded to ensure your wellbeing. Would you not agree, Lucien?” The last part of his speech was directed at Enjolras’ father, who inclined his head.

“Of course, of course,” said his father, his face an impenetrable mask. “I shall send for my omega’s handmaiden, so you may depart swiftly.”

Enjolras cast a panicked glance in his mother’s direction, but she was not looking at him. Instinctively, he re-directed his gaze towards Grantaire, who was standing but a few paces behind his uncle, his eyes already resting on the unfolding scene. Something seemed to soften in his expression as soon as their eyes locked and he gave an almost imperceptive nod, which, for some peculiar reason, eased some of the tightness in Enjolras’ chest.

They departed not soon after, Enjolras openly scowling as he reluctantly let himself be led away by the Prince, his mother’s handmaiden following in their wake. At first, as they wound their way through the deserted palace, Enjolras hoped that for once, his suspicions had been unfounded and the trip to his rooms would pass without incident, but of course fate had other ideas. It had never been kind to Enjolras to this point and, apparently, it would continue this way. The world was hard in handing out judgment, raining it most harshly upon the ones already weakened. But Enjolras had yet to yield and, as long as there was breath within his body, he would not. If the world fought him, he would fight back with twice the force and he would not relent, even should it eventually break him.

It was but a corridor away from Enjolras’ rooms that Philippe suddenly stopped walking and turned his imperious stare upon the servant behind them.

“You are dismissed,” said Philippe, his voice heavy with command and the surge of pheromones enough to instantly force the handmaiden into a deep curtsey, her head bowed low. Enjolras’ insides twisted and his vision swam briefly. He attempted to cease breathing through his nose, but it hardly helped at all.

When his mother’s trusted servant glanced uncertainly towards Enjolras from beneath her lashes, Philippe waved a commanding hand. “Return to the ball, I shall see Enjolras to his rooms. You will inform his father that he has arrived safely.”

Shooting one last, helpless look at Enjolras, the servant bowed her head once more. “Yes, sire,” she said in a thin voice, before scrambling to comply.

Enjolras did not wait to watch her go, instead wrenched himself free of Philippe’s arm and sought to put as much space between them as the walls on either side allowed him.

“You are out of line,” snapped Enjolras, feeling shaken but refusing to show it. He raised his chin in defiance and felt his stomach turn in protest.

“Now, my dear,” crooned Philippe, advancing a step, then another. His gaze was bright with drink and lust alike. “Is this any way to talk to your bondmate.”

“We are not bonded,” bit out Enjolras, barely holding back the completion of the sentence as he retreated on shaky legs. _Nor will we ever be._

He hit the wall behind him but a moment later and was almost grateful for the support, his knees weak as his instincts fought to make them bend. Panic seized him and shortened his breath, his heart beating wildly as he wrought his brain for a way out. Sweat was slicking his palms and had glued his shirt to his skin, but no matter how often Enjolras glanced about, no secret path appeared to aid him in a mysterious escape.

Philippe tutted and bared his teeth in a leer. It looked nothing at all like Grantaire’s sharp smile and Enjolras, dazed and frightened, felt a sudden, overwhelming urge for Grantaire’s presence.

“Technicalities,” said Philippe, his pale eyes glinting dangerously in the dim light. “We both know you belong to me already.”

The Prince advanced once more, successfully eliminating the space between them and bringing their bodies almost completely into contact.

Enjolras shuddered in disgust and recoiled against the cold wall behind him. He was trapped, entirely at Philippe’s mercy and mere moments from emptying his stomach, a move which would finally bring him to his knees and into the exact position Philippe wanted him. His mind was coated with nauseating pheromones, rooting his feet into place and seeping beneath his skin and straight to his muscles, leaving him trembling but stunned and unable to defend himself. Still he would not yield, _he would not._

With the sour taste of bile already flooding his mouth, Enjolras yanked the frayed tatters of his control around himself and spat at the Prince’s face.

“ _Never!_ ”

For a moment, Philippe’s expression was that of profound surprise. Sadly, it lasted hardly long enough for Enjolras to revel in it, for not a moment later a rough hand shot out and seized his throat, pinning him harshly and sending his head crashing into the wall behind him. Pain exploded at the back of Enjolras’ skull, making stars burst before his eyes, the involuntary sound of pained shock stifled by the vicious grip.

Enjolras’ hands, weak and shaking, clawed uselessly at Philippe’s hand while the Prince wiped his ornate sleeve across his cheek, removing the proof of Enjolras’ rebellion.

“You like it rough, do you?” snarled Philippe, the wave of alpha pheromones as suffocating as the hand around Enjolras’ throat. “Let me impart to you a little secret then, my fair Enjolras.” At this, the Prince leaned in close, his grip on Enjolras tightening further as he yanked his head to the side, baring his scent glands. Enjolras struggled wildly, leaving deep welts across Philippe’s hand and successfully drawing blood, though the Prince paid him no heed, instead roughly pressed his nose to the most sensitive part of Enjolras’ neck and scented him. A choked sound tumbled past Enjolras’ lips as he sought to recoil form the intimate touch, shuddering at the vile feeling of Philippe’s hot breath brushing his skin.

“So do I,” growled Philippe, voice pitched low and dangerous. His fingers tightened, cutting nearly all of Enjolras’ air supply. “You are a beauty, yes, but it is the knowledge of your struggle which will make this so much more enjoyable for me.” Horrified, Enjolras felt the proof of Philippe’s words pressing hot and hard against his thigh, the Prince’s leg shoving roughly between his own and pinning him more firmly. “Horses need to be broken as well, before they can be ridden properly. And let me assure you, it will be my utmost pleasure to break you. No one will fault me for trying out my new toy and I have been teased enough.” Philippe twisted Enjolras’ head further, until his lips hovered directly above his sensitive glands. “I shall breed you until you bleed.”

Panic was like a living thing within Enjolras’ chest and in a last attempt of desperation, Enjolras sank his nails into Philippe’s hand with all the strength still residing within him, but it was barely enough to break the skin. Black spots were dancing before his eyes and the adrenalin surging through his body was not enough to battle the force of alpha pheromones. Enjolras could do nothing, nothing at all but brace himself for the painful impact of the Prince’s teeth sinking into his flesh. 

It never came.

Something collided with Philippe’s side with enough force to violently unsteady him. He released Enjolras’ throat and Enjolras was instantly seized by coughs intense enough to rattle his lungs and leave his throat raw and painful. Even so, his first instinct was to lock his knees and remain upright, one hand seeking his aching throat while the other grabbed onto the wall, his sweat-slicked palm sliding across the gilded tapestry.

A gentle hand passed briefly over his back, before the warm presence, which had so suddenly appeared at his side, shifted and Enjolras watched through tear-filled eyes as Grantaire advanced on the Prince, who for some peculiar reason was dowsed in sweet-smelling wine.

“How clumsy of me,” said Grantaire, his voice quiet in the way a blade was quiet as it slit across someone’s throat. “I must have slipped.”

Philippe snarled and Enjolras instantly clamped his lips together at the wave of pheromones thickening the air. Grantaire bared his teeth, his smile sharp and familiar though infinitely more dangerous and no amount of spirits or soap was able to cover the sweet, heavy scent which sought to drown Philippe’s own, vile smell.

Briefly, Philippe looked rather overcome by this turn of events, but the moment was mournfully short as instincts took over.

“You will pay for this,” growled Philippe as he straightened his spine and rose to his full height, successfully looming over Grantaire, who looked not in the least intimidated.

“Oh please,” and only Grantaire could manage the feat of turning a plea into a threat. “Do your very worst.”

Not a moment later, they were at each other’s throats, but Enjolras was hardly able to follow their movements. Their was a numbness crushing his emotions beneath a thick blanket of nothingness and coating his thoughts in molasses, rendering him all but unable to think. He felt cold and as he glanced down, he found his hands as unsteady as they had ever been. Blood had painted small, half-rings beneath the edges of his nails and Enjolras merely stared at them for an unidentifiable amount of time, unable to grasp his feelings on the matter.

It was a testament to his upset that he missed most of the fierce fight before him, though thankfully some of his senses slammed back as he caught the vicious glint of a blade in Philippe’s hands. He slashed at Grantaire, who evaded him skilfully, but was forced to retreat against the opposite wall as he did so. Philippe followed relentlessly and but a few seconds later red spread across Grantaire’s sleeve.

Enjolras successfully seized back some form of control and cast a swift look about, seeking whatever was closest to be used as a weapon. Candle-light caught against the mirrored surface of a silver jug at his feet, lying in a pool of spilled wine. Grantaire must have been carrying it as he had come upon them, Enjolras realised.

Bending on still trembling knees, Enjolras closed numb fingers around the silver handle, mindless of the fact that he was dripping wine on his garments as he lifted it off the floor. Grantaire was now trapped against the wall with Philippe’s blade pressed against his throat as the Prince sneered down at him. Enjolras wasted no time. A mere three steps took him to the opposite side and in one, smooth arc, he had brought down the jug against the side of Philippe’s head.

There must have been more force behind it than Enjolras anticipated, for the Prince went down akin to a stone in the sea, slumping to the floor in a graceless heap, an ugly gash at his temple already pouring forth blood.

Grantaire turned stunned eyes on him, though his gaze sharpened almost instantly, flitting across Enjolras’ face. Enjolras knew not what it was he found there, but when he spoke his tone was as gentle as it was firm.

“Enjolras, give me the jug.”

Enjolras did so instantly, his instincts raw and spilling across the muted voice clamouring in the back of his mind, urging him to seize back control. It was clamouring in vain, for Enjolras was unable to see past the blue of Grantaire’s eyes, his entire focus shifting to receive whatever next was asked of him.

“Very good,” said Grantaire quietly and the praise pleased Enjolras, though he knew not why. “I know you are unwell, but we must leave as quickly as possible. Do you understand?”

Enjolras inclined his head in what was partly affirmation and partly acquiescence. The gesture felt strange, somehow wrong and right all at once. He dared not question it, unwilling to dig forth the swell of emotions rushing beneath the still present blanket of numbness.

Grantaire passed a hand through his wild hair, looking both determined and troubled. Enjolras thought about inquiring what was wrong, but the thought came and went, slipping through his mental grasp and sinking beneath the blanket with all the others.

“Go to your rooms and ready a bag. Pack only what you deem absolutely vital. Have you procured the map we talked about?” Orders and direct questions, Enjolras could follow those, at the very least. He nodded and Grantaire continued speaking. “Then pack it as well. I will meet you in your quarters in a little while. Will you do this for me?”

Enjolras, dazed and eager to please, did exactly as he was told.

*

What followed was a blur of lingering numbness and mindless obedience. Enjolras spoke not at all, unable to grasp a single thought beyond the current happenings and doggedly following Grantaire wherever he led.

They entered the shadowy back corridors of the palace, used only by servants, and wound their way through them until they reached the stables. Without Grantaire, Enjolras would no doubt have been horribly lost, even were he in full possession of his wits.

Once there, Grantaire unearthed a second bag from beneath a stack of hay and briefly rummaged within its depths, emerging with a plain, grey coat which he swiftly exchanged with Enjolras’ ornate jacket. Enjolras allowed Grantaire free reign of his body as he tugged the coat into place, before gently plucking the ghastly bow from Enjolras’ hair with a grimace and hiding his curls beneath an old cap the same colour as the coat.

Grantaire then helped him mount a brown mare, before swinging himself onto a black steed next to Enjolras, both bags strapped securely to his saddle. They exited through the back entrance used only for deliveries and hunting parties and when Grantaire urged his horse into a gallop, Enjolras followed suit without thought. He did not look back once.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because I'm a nerd, have some references:
> 
> A [dance card](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dance_card) is a small booklet listing the songs and dances that are to be played at the ball. Ladies hand them out to gentlemen on request so they can put their name next to the dance they want to claim. It was primarily a custom used at the Austrian court.
> 
> Also, before you get weirded out, let me do it for you: in my universe literally every alpha has the ability to 'put a baby' into an omega and yes, that includes the female ones. And yes, that is also the case with an alpha female and an omega male, meaning that even in that constellation, it's the omega male bearing the child. I know it's strange, but let's just hope you'll get used to it. I just wanted it all to be linear and if you know me at all, you'll know that I have some kind of obsession with trying out different/new things XD.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, let me just say how sorry I am that this took so long! As you might already know, I've been suffering from an especially insistent writer's block these past months and let me tell you, it was absolute _torture_!
> 
> BUT I'm finally, _finally_ back. Sadly, I can't promise another update very soon, because I'm partaking in the [Merlin Reverse Big Bang](http://merlinreversebb.livejournal.com) and probably won't have a lot of time to spare until March. However, that doesn't mean I'm abandoning this fandom OR any of my WIPs and chances are very high that the wait for the next chapter won't be as horribly long as this one has been.
> 
> On more information about my writing progress, you can check out [my progress reports](http://mornmeril.tumblr.com/tagged/progressreport) on my tumblr.
> 
> Also, I now have a [masterlist](http://mornmeril.tumblr.com/masterlist) of all my fic, including the things I don't post on AO3.
> 
> Without further ado, I wish you happy reading and hope very much that the chapter was at least a little bit worth your wait! Thank you all for sticking with me, you're the best <3!

Time seemed to be passing differently, Enjolras’ grasp on it vague and slippery.

The moon was hidden that night and he knew not how long he mindlessly followed the faint outline of Grantaire through the darkness, shadowy trees passing by him in a blur and blending into one.

It was only gradually that the blanket of numbness finally began to slide away, baring the pain which had gone unnoticed until now, suffocated beneath primal instincts and shock. Aches sparked to life all over Enjolras’ body. 

First was his throat, raw and tender from the vicious handling of Philippe’s hand, its phantom touch lingering as though the Prince’s fingers were there still, pressing harshly against his neck. Enjolras instinctively reached upwards to ensure that it was not so, brushing bruised skin that felt heated and abused.

A dull throbbing was spreading from the back of his skull where his head had impacted with the wall and the pain appeared to be stretching all the way to his shoulders, his muscles stiff and unyielding. His eyes had trouble focusing, his vision swimming in and out, as though unable to stay rooted to the outside world and constantly seeking the inside of his own mind.

Enjolras inhaled deeply, but found that it did nothing to calm him. His hands were shaking and so, he realised, was the rest of him.

Memories were starting to trickle in, soon becoming a rushing river which swamped him without warning. It was suddenly as if Philippe were with him still, his crude words echoing mercilessly in Enjolras’ ears, ricocheting in his mind and blending into a cacophony.

_It will be my utmost pleasure to break you_ , mocked the Prince inside his head. _I shall breed you until you bleed._

For a moment it was almost as though Enjolras was back at the palace, trapped between the wall and Philippe’s insistent weight. He could feel the echoes of Philippe’s hot breath, the proximity of his teeth where they were poised to claim him against his will.

Stomach turning violently, Enjolras yanked his horse to a sudden halt, barely hearing its protesting whinny, for he had already dismounted. He managed but two, stumbling steps before his knees gave out and he was violently ill, staining the grass before him. Tears sprang to his eyes as his throat protested wildly, the sensation akin to a dozen, burning blades.

Hot wetness spilled over, displaying his weakness in salty streaks across his cheeks, which heated in both shame and anger.

“Enjolras.”

It was Grantaire, kneeling down at his side, but Enjolras managed nothing but a faint sob.

“May I touch you?” asked Grantaire softly. 

Enjolras did not answer, did not think at all, simply turned and brought down his forehead to rest against Grantaire’s chest, one of his still shaking hands encircling Grantaire’s arm in a vice-like grip. The cap slid from Enjolras’ head, tangled curls tumbling free and hiding his face. Enjolras closed his eyes, grateful for the barrier.

Grantaire remained as he was, still and silent, an anchor to Enjolras’ raging emotions. His heart beat a steady rhythm, his breast moving with even breaths which Enjolras used to regulate his own.

It was only when Enjolras moved once more, when he pressed further into Grantaire’s warmth, that there was the faintest touch against his temple. The throbbing there eased instantly, though Enjolras was in no position to ponder the fact.

Slowly and oh so carefully, Grantaire brushed aside the curtain of hair, some of the strands clinging to Enjolras’ damp cheeks before sliding away. Enjolras did not dare open his eyes and face the world just yet, instead chose to stay exactly as he was, drawing in Grantaire’s comforting scent with every breath; sweet and heady and safe.

The return of his senses, at least some of them, was slow and laborious.

Convincing his instincts to retreat once more was almost impossible, laid bare as they were ever since his conscious thought had switched off in their favour. They clung to Grantaire, reluctant to take back control when sensing the reassuring presence of an alpha so close, an alpha who had protected him and was willing to do so again.

Enjolras had seldom hated his nature more.

Even so, with his head seeking to split itself apart, he could not but wish for Grantaire’s fingers in his hair once more. But Grantaire’s hand had dropped after the previous, all too fleeting caress, and was now a barely-there touch against his shoulder, palm curved softly over it in a protective, if tentative manner.

“Forgive me,” muttered Enjolras, voice hoarse and scarcely audible against the plain shirt of Grantaire’s servant garb. It was only with utter difficulty that he finally drew back, though his fingers yet refused to loosen their hold on Grantaire’s arm.

Hastily wiping at his face with a coat sleeve, Enjolras found Grantaire regarding him with soft eyes and concern furrowing his brow.

“There is nothing to forgive, I assure you,” said Grantaire gently. 

His hand, now dislodged from Enjolras’ shoulder, slid along his arm before releasing him completely. Enjolras immediately wished for it back. Instead, he forced himself to peel his own, stiff fingers from Grantaire’s bicep and used them to brush aside his tangled curls. From the corner of his eye, Enjolras espied the darkened stain where blood had seeped through the thin fabric of Grantaire’s coat.

Alarm straightened Enjolras’ spine. “Your arm,” he said, relieved when the words emerged edged with a small portion of his usual air of command. “Let me see it.”

Grantaire gave a small shake of his head. “We cannot linger. I wish to give us some more headway, if you believe yourself able. Are you well enough to continue?”

Enjolras raised his chin, unwilling to show any more weakness. 

“I am,” he said, though his aches had not lessened and nausea was still twisting his insides.

Grantaire cast upon him a searching look, though refrained from commenting. His eyes flickered back towards the dark road behind them, his gaze sharp as it sought for signs of pursuers. Enjolras followed suit, but could discern nothing in the dark of the night.

“Let us make haste,” said Grantaire. “The more ground we cover, the better.”

Sparing his tortured throat, Enjolras did not offer a verbal reply, instead focused on carefully reclaiming control over his muscles as he rose to his feet. Grantaire offered him no help and Enjolras was grateful for it. His pride was bruised enough and would not let him accept any more assistance.

Enjolras was in no shape for an adventure. He was exhausted and in pain, barely managing to bite down on the agonised sound rising in his throat as he returned to his saddle and it was only due to sheer determination that he remained atop his horse throughout the following hours.

Grantaire led them surely, the glances he threw over his shoulder growing in frequency, though Enjolras could not make out his expression in the dark. Barely composed, Enjolras did his best to keep his mind on the task at hand, not letting it stray to anything further than the desire to wash and to find a spot where he could recline and battle some of his misery.

Eventually, they came across a small, non-descript inn, where Grantaire bid him to halt. 

Enjolras knew not how much time had passed, though the sky above them was still dark. It was with a feeling of utmost relief that he dismounted, his knees weak and his legs trembling. He knew that despite his iron will, he was unable to go any further that night. 

This time, Enjolras wasted no thought about permitting Grantaire to wrap a steadying hand around his elbow, partly for support and partly to not raise suspicion as they entered together.

Grantaire spoke to the unkempt innkeeper in terse tones, for once doing nothing to rein in his pheromones and slapping down a few gold coins atop the stained counter.

“A room for the night. We wish to remain undisturbed, do you understand? As far as you are concerned, you have not seen us and you will deny having rented a room to any of our description.”

The innkeeper bowed to Grantaire with a grandeur entirely unfitting for his appearance, his greasy hair catching the dim light of the candle at his side as he bared yellow teeth. He snatched up the coins with grimy fingers.

“You may put your faith in me, Monsieur,” purred the innkeeper in a horribly nasal voice, his false smile widening. His eyes flittered to Enjolras, who had to battle the urge to raise his chin and instead jerked down his head to hide his face, the cap thankfully aiding him greatly in this endeavour.

Grantaire let loose a threatening snarl, tearing the sleazy innkeeper’s attention away and sending him bowing once more.

“Should I find out that you have betrayed us, I shall see to it that you may never be able to lie again. Are we in accord?”

“We are, Monsieur, we are. I will personally vouch for your secrecy,” retorted the innkeeper hastily.

“Good,” snapped Grantaire, the cadence of his voice foreign to Enjolras, who was so accustomed to having a gentler tone directed at him. “See to our horses.”

With one hand carrying their belongings and the other still firmly on Enjolras’ arm, Grantaire steered him towards the stairs leading to the upper floor of the inn. His touch was not unkind, despite that it was clearly meant to appear so, and Enjolras did not resist. As soon as they were obscured from sight, Grantaire released him.

“How I hate this detestable business,” he muttered darkly, though Enjolras was uncertain whether he was referring to the act of shady dealings or being forced into displaying dominance. Perhaps it was both.

Enjolras remained silent, barely scraping together enough energy to make it to the top of the landing.

Their room was as shabby as the rest of the establishment, smelling of old sweat and seedy deeds. Two beds with a threadbare mattress were pushed to either wall, the sheets barely passing as clean, and the only other furniture consisted of a rickety table with two matching chairs and a chipped basin in the corner. Enjolras made his way to it as Grantaire set down their belongings and threw open the only window, letting in a cool breeze which smelled faintly of the ocean.

Staring forlornly into the empty basin, Enjolras hardly heard as Grantaire came to his side.

“Do you wish for me to fetch some water?” his voice was once more gentle as he addressed Enjolras.

Enjolras glanced at him, exhaustion turning the art of thinking into a chore.

“You are no longer my servant, Grantaire.”

Grantaire wet his lips and Enjolras was becoming fast used to the heating of his blood whenever he was witness to the gesture.

“And if I tell you that I wish to serve you, would you still deny me?”

Feeling hot and confused, Enjolras freed his aching head of the cap, letting his hair tumble free of its confines.

“I would not believe you,” said Enjolras, casting aside the cap and following it up with his coat.

Something flashed across Grantaire’s face, something more than mere displeasure; an emotion rather shaper and rawer and very much like pain.

“Have I still not earned your trust?”

Alarmed, Enjolras turned to him. “That is not-” he broke off, feeling unsure and severely uncentered. Hurting Grantaire had not occurred to him as something within his power and knowing that he had done so was quite unbearable. He cast about for something to say to wipe away the look on Grantaire’s face and ended his floundering by doing what he would were it Combeferre before him instead. Reaching for Grantaire’s hand, Enjolras pressed it with his own.

Though the difference of performing the gesture on Grantaire rather than his dearest friend could not have been greater. Where Combeferre’s touch warmed his chest with easy affection, Grantaire’s skin lit a raging fire. Enjolras was ill equipped at dealing with the unknown and after a night as the one he had endured, with his instincts still so close to the surface, it was a feat of impossibility.

And so it happened that instead of doing the wise thing and instantly releasing Grantaire’s hand as he had originally intended, Enjolras held it all the tighter.

“You have my trust, Grantaire,” Enjolras heard himself speak.

Grantaire’s eyes were wide, his breathing shallow in the space between them and his voice but a whisper. “Enjolras.”

They were closer now, hardly an inch apart, and Enjolras dazedly wondered how that could be, when not a moment ago there had been so much hateful distance between them. Grantaire’s eyes were so very blue and his scent the sweetest thing Enjolras had ever smelled. He wished to press his nose to his neck, wished to taste his lips and discover whether they were just as sweet. He leaned in, so very close, his eyes half-lidded and his chest tight with desire.

“Please desist.” The words were ragged, a pained plea and akin to a slap in the face.

Enjolras reeled back, releasing Grantaire’s hand as though it had truly burned him. 

Grantaire was tense, every muscle tight with strain, his face flushed and his chest heaving with panted breaths. He looked every bit as pained as he had sounded and Enjolras was utterly mortified. With growing horror, he realised that Grantaire’s sweetness was not the only one lingering in the air between them, but that his own scent had infused the stifling room, slipped free from behind Enjolras’ still damaged walls.

“Forgive me,” said Enjolras, wondering how many times he may utter the words and still sound sincere.

Grantaire backed away carefully on visibly shaking legs. “Please do not upset yourself over this. You are unwell still, as is entirely understandable. I shall fetch your water and ask for something to settle your stomach.”

With the sound of the closing door, Enjolras fell back against the wall, his knees no longer willing to support him.

*

True to his word, Grantaire returned with a wooden bucket of water and a bowl of steaming broth, which he put down on the table. Enjolras, now seated on one of the rickety chairs, obediently cradled it between trembling palms, warming curiously cold fingers. He watched Grantaire pour the water into the basin, before going in search for a cloth that could be used for washing. He also, Enjolras noted with displeasure, turned down one of the beds in a few, practiced movements.

“I shall give you your privacy and return in a while,” said Grantaire, once he had finished his self-appointed tasks. “Should you have need of me, I shall be easily found.” 

Which was how he quit the rooms a second time. It looked rather suspiciously like flight to Enjolras, though who was he to begrudge Grantaire some time away from an unstable omega who seemed to have lost every sense of self-preservation.

Enjolras very much wished to unleash his temper on the closest, inanimate object, but he had had quite enough of his flighty control and was unwilling to permit himself any more transgressions or displays of weakness.

He gulped down several mouthfuls of broth, burning his tongue and fighting back tears against the intense ache in his throat, before seizing the cloth and applying himself to washing some of the grime from his skin with jerky movements. He paid special attention to his bruised neck, biting back sounds of pain and caught himself frantically hoping that the water would be enough to wash away the memory of Philippe’s hateful hands.

Enjolras hardly remembered collapsing onto the grimy bed, only that he did so without bothering to remove anything but his boots. Darkness came swiftly, dragging him into a sleep of the severely exhausted, dreamless and closely resembling unconsciousness.

*

The following morning found Enjolras with the sun already high in the sky and his throat aching as severely, if not worse, as the day before.

Upon rising into an upright position on the bed, Enjolras discovered Grantaire seated at the table, a bottle of wine in hand and the map Enjolras had dug up at the palace spread before him. He looked up as Enjolras shifted to put his feet on the floor, the wood shockingly cool with only his stockings protecting his skin. Despite how far south they were, it seemed that winter was coming.

“You look much better,” commented Grantaire, carefully putting down the bottle beside the map. “How are you feeling?”

Enjolras glanced at the bottle, then back at Grantaire, sprawled out atop his seat with profound casualness. 

“Like myself, which I can only say is a vast improvement.” Enjolras paused briefly, mercilessly assaulted by the memories of the previous night and feeling his cheeks redden. “I must again ask your forgiveness, I was not in my right mind.”

Grantaire straightened from his sprawl, turning in his chair to fully face Enjolras, his expression firming into something rather more somber.

“I have told you before and I shall do so again, there is nothing to forgive. You hold no blame for what transpired. A lesser man would have crumbled beneath the strain in a rather more severe manner.” Grantaire cast down his gaze briefly. “It is I who has to beg your pardon. I sincerely hope that you are aware that had the circumstances been different, I would never have taken such liberties with you. I wished only to protect you.”

Enjolras rose from the bed, seeking higher ground born from long standing instinct.

“Do not apologise to me, I beg of you.” As was his wont, it came out rather a command than a plea, but Enjolras hoped his honesty shone from his face well enough. “You have done more for me than I can ever dream of repaying. You have saved me from a fate worse than death - twice I might add - and you continue to stand by me at the risk of your own life. You have more than earned my complete trust and loyalty, small price as it may be for the trouble I have caused you.”

Grantaire rose as well, eyes bright and expression open and earnest. He seemed touched by Enjolras’ declaration and it warmed Enjolras to see it, relieved at having been able to offer at least that much.

“You owe me nothing,” said Grantaire gently. “What I have done was of my own free will and I would do so again, given the choice. I wish only to remain at your side, if you will have me. I’m not the best of men, but I am devoted and I will do all I can not to fail you.”

Enjolras’ heart picked up speed and he cursed it viciously, just as he cursed the warmth spreading throughout his body.

“Why are you doing this?” So much had happened since the first time Enjolras had asked that question, but still it had not been answered.

“Will you deny me if I do not expand on the matter?” asked Grantaire quietly.

Enjolras shook his head, at once confused and irritated at being refused clarification yet again. 

“At this point, I can deny you nothing,” he said, sounding rather more wary than he had intended. “You may remain with me as long as you will, Grantaire, if it pleases you.” Grantaire visibly brightened and the sweet smile curving his lips did something peculiar to Enjolras’ breath. “Under one condition,” continued Enjolras hastily, holding up a finger. “We are equals, Grantaire, and I shall treat you as such. You must not see me as your master.”

“How am I to see you, then?” asked Grantaire, something unreadable in his eyes.

“As a friend,” said Enjolras firmly, raising his chin. “I have not much to give you, but I will give what I can.”

Grantaire sighed. “I told you that you owe me nothing,” he said. “But I shall gladly accept your friendship nevertheless.”

Enjolras allowed himself a smile of his own and was confused when Grantaire looked rather dazzled in the face of it. He realised he must not have done it before and silently made note of gifting Grantaire with more smiles, if that was the response he was to gain from it.

Seeking safer ground, Enjolras quickly stepped into his boots and joined Grantaire at the table.

“You look like a man with a plan,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire’s smirk was quick and sharp as ever. “Do I?”

Enjolras absently thumbed the edge of the map, worrying a corner. 

“You always seem a step ahead of everyone else.”

Grantaire picked up his wine once more. “You make it sound so refined,” he said, his words dripping bitterness. He took a swig from the bottle. “When it is merely a small affinity for tactical thinking and a good portion of luck.”

Enjolras frowned. “It is more than that. Why do you insist on discrediting yourself?”

Grantaire shook his head, the sharp twist of his mouth turning as bitter as his voice. “I dare say, my dear Enjolras, I do not discredit myself enough.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Enjolras. “Would it kill you to speak plainly for once?”

“It might,” said Grantaire lightly. “I have yet to test the theory.”

“You are impossible,” said Enjolras on a frustrated sigh. He was desperate for a change in subject, wishing to focus on something that would allow his emotions to settle. Grantaire, thankfully, allowed it. “At the palace you mentioned a route you had planned?”

Grantaire shifted, moving aside the bottle, and leaned over the map, absently tapping Marseille and the surrounding area as he spoke.

“They will anticipate your desire to return to Paris and expect you to take the quickest route.” Grantaire traced a straight line towards Paris. “So I suggest we take a different one, which will take us double the time, but it will be worth the trouble for shaking them from our tail.” Here he drew a wider circle, then raised his eyes to look at Enjolras. “And in any case, I have friends in Toulouse that I wish to visit.”

Enjolras frowned. “You believe your friends willing to welcome a fugitive? I don’t wish to bring them trouble.”

Grantaire bared his teeth in a sharp smile. “Worry not, Enjolras. I know for a fact that they shall be very pleased to see us both.”

*

After the map had been safely tucked away once more, Grantaire insisted on procuring fresh water for Enjolras to wash and, upon his return, he brought with him a platter of bread and cheese, which they shared once Enjolras had deemed himself clean, now clad in a fresh set of garments. They were the simplest he owned, a black cravat and pair of trousers along with a striped waistcoat and a maroon jacket. Grantaire himself had changed out of his bland servant garb and was now wearing a waistcoat with a tartan pattern in blue and green. His trousers were also dark, though he had not bothered with a jacket, instead remaining in his shirtsleeves. 

They agreed that though inconvenient, they would continue their journey tonight, lest the Queen’s guard catch up with them. Nor did they want to invest anymore faith in the sleazy innkeeper, afraid of being sold out should a better offer come his way.

“How is your arm?” asked Enjolras as he finished packing. “Will you let me see it now?”

Grantaire threw a careless smile over his shoulder, before returning his attention to closing his own, readied bag.

“It is but a scratch,” he said lightly. “One that I already took care of last night.”

Enjolras frowned. “You must promise to tell me if it gives you trouble.”

Grantaire’s grin merely sharpened and he raised his hand in a mocking salute. Enjolras gifted him with a glare, though chose not to comment.

They ensured themselves that they had left nothing behind and Enjolras took one more turn about the room, though when he reached for his bag, his arm was caught by Grantaire in a gentle grip.

“There is a matter we must address before we depart,” said Grantaire, his voice quiet and once more devoid of humour.

It took Enjolras but a short moment to catch Grantaire’s meaning, his spine instantly stiffening and his heart once more thumping wildly against his ribcage. Grantaire gave a gentle squeeze, warm and reassuring, as he looked upon Enjolras with concern.

“If I didn’t think it necessary, I would not raise the subject, but I fear we cannot take the risk of leaving you unbonded any longer,” Grantaire went on, his eyes sliding down to study the vivid bruising around Enjolras’ neck. “How is your throat?”

Enjolras barely resisted the urge to touch it, instead raising his chin, unwittingly further displaying the angry red marks.

“Sore, though mostly at the front,” said Enjolras tightly. “The area you require should be unharmed.”

Grantaire took a careful step closer, then another. His body radiated heat and Enjolras suppressed the unbidden urge to lean towards him and negate the distance completely. He did not understand this insanity, could not fathom why his instincts constantly flared to life and insisted he be as close to Grantaire as possible. It was utterly unnerving.

“I shall be as careful as I can,” murmured Grantaire, his breath ghosting across Enjolras’ skin and making him tremble. “Do you permit it?”

The question was the same as the first time and Enjolras was terrified at the notion that he could not think of a single thing that he would not permit Grantaire in that moment. For once, Enjolras felt not brave at all. He closed his eyes, both to hide and to bar himself from the irresistible sight of Grantaire so close. He tilted his head, baring his scent glands.

“Yes,” breathed out Enjolras, fervently wishing that it held none of the desperate longing tingling beneath his skin.

Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s hand, which was still curled around his arm, shift. A thumb traced a gentle circle against the soft inside of his elbow, then another. Enjolras fought against the rising shiver along his spine.

There was a soft tug at Enjolras’ collar, further baring his throat, before Grantaire leaned in, impossibly closer. Enjolras should not be feeling this way, none of this made sense. Where was the trepidation? The wariness, the feeling of threat? Where was the disgust and reluctance?

Instead, Enjolras wished only for more, wished for Grantaire’s touch and for the courage to touch him in turn.

Grantaire’s breath was hot and uneven, his voice barely audible as he uttered a soft warning.

The first brush of lips was electric, the first touch of Grantaire’s tongue pure fire. Enjolras shuddered and bit his lip, locking down his instincts and fervently struggling not to arch his back. His hands were reduced to trembling fists, nails digging harshly into the flesh of his palm.

And Grantaire was gentle, always gentle, even as he set his teeth to Enjolras’ glands and sucked his mark into his skin.

Enjolras tasted blood, his lip protesting the harsh treatment bestowed by Enjolras’ teeth, but Enjolras deemed it worth the fact that it trapped the moan which was building in his chest and threatening to spill forth. His knees felt weak, Grantaire’s hold of his arm the only thing keeping him upright.

The feeling of the connection forming was unexplainably strange. Alarmed, Enjolras finally lost the fight with himself and his fingers shot out to close tightly around the solid warmth of Grantaire’s wrist, just shy of his hand. It was almost as though each of their minds was knitting a thread, both of which were straining towards each other. They met halfway, the point of connection sending a shudder through them both.

Heat pulsed throughout Enjolras’ body, flushing his cheeks and shortening his breath until his chest ached. His trousers had become tight and too rough against his skin and as Enjolras further squeezed shut his eyes, he prayed that Grantaire would remain unaware. It was the sweetest torture he had ever known.

The thread, now reduced to a single line, flared once, a feeling both hot and bright, before settling into place. It was then that the suction against Enjolras’ throat finally eased and Grantaire’s lips parted from his skin, leaving Enjolras instantly aware of the throbbing mark left in their place.

With his senses clouded by Grantaire’s scent and desire still a lingering fire across his skin, Enjolras found himself struggling to keep his nose from seeking Grantaire’s neck. Releasing Grantaire’s wrist, Enjolras hastily stepped away on unsteady feet and inelegantly hit the wall behind him. Grantaire instantly retreated, though the air between them was heavy still.

 The protection bond tingled, bringing with it a wave of concern that was not his own. Enjolras’ spine stiffened, his eyes wide as they locked with Grantaire’s; Grantaire, who seemed to be struggling as well. The concern cut off abruptly and Enjolras clamped down in turn, reducing their connection to a faint thread that no longer held the power to expose what Enjolras so desperately wanted to keep hidden.

“Are you alright?” asked Grantaire, a tight note to his tone.

Enjolras found not the words to answer him.

“Enjolras-”

“Leave me,” commanded Enjolras, the words tumbling form him, sudden and frantic. They were harsher than intended and he shakily sought to amend them. “Please. I require a moment-”

Grantaire inclined his head, his eyes hidden as wild curls fell forth over his brow. “Of course,” he said quietly. “I shall wait downstairs.”

The moment the lock clicked into place, taking with it Grantaire - his footsteps fading as they descended the stairs of the inn - Enjolras was across the room, grabbing for the remains of fresh water Grantaire had brought up before. The liquid was a shock to his overheated face, dripping from his nose and sliding into his still parted collar. Enjolras pressed his face to his palms and stilled. His breaths had yet to even and his chest felt as though it might burst, his heart beating out a fierce rhythm.

Desire had formed a heated knot in the pit of his stomach and he had hardened to the point of aching. And as though this was not shameful enough, Enjolras discovered the mortifying feel of slippery fluid coating the entrance to his body.

His fingers found their way to his hair, curling into it and tugging harshly. He longed for Grantaire, for the touch of his lips, his hands, for his-

No. No, Enjolras refused to take his thoughts any further.

He would not give into this. _He would not._

*

That night, they covered the almost sixty miles to Arlés, arriving just as dawn had started painting the sky a faint red with the approaching sunrise. Riding at night was doubly exhausting and Enjolras was glad for the paved roads, which sped up their pace considerably even considering their reduced vision.

Despite his claims about his improved state, Enjolras felt every bit as hunted as a deer being pursued through the woods. He found himself frequently glancing over his shoulder, squinting through the darkness and envisioning the Queen’s guard hot on their heels.

His mind was determined not to let him forget the events of the past days, sending his thoughts into endless circles which left dread tugging at his gut, expecting something to go wrong any moment. His neck was throbbing, both in pain and with a lingering, tingling pleasure where the mark of Grantaire’s protection was burned into his skin.

Enjolras had read about this practice, but the reality was vastly different than any written word. Nowhere had the books expanded on how the mark was a constant point of awareness, how it felt hot beneath his probing fingers and made him long for Grantaire’s touch instead.

Their connection was strong, felt almost unbreakable, and at the thought of having it fade, Enjolras felt himself instinctively panic. It was irrational and worrisome, as exciting as it was frightening. He was certain that his feelings on the matter where unnatural, could not imagine the same to have occurred had his protection come from Combeferre instead.

Enjolras was also quite certain that whatever it was that sent his heart into a frenzy and burned his skin, was not felt by Grantaire in turn. He certainly did not look unravelled, rather even more focused and sharp than usual, despite his overall layer of casualness remaining intact. After his request to be left alone to reclaim control of his body, Enjolras had found Grantaire awaiting him, ready to depart and not a single thing betraying what had transpired between them.

During their journey, he only sought Enjolras’ gaze a handful of times, clearly trusting the protection bond to inform him should anything be amiss. Enjolras was careful not to probe at the thread in the back of his mind, scared that it might alert Grantaire to his thoughts by accidentally transferring a portion of the many, intricate knots his emotions had created. If Grantaire was aware of Enjolras’ ongoing turmoil, he gave no notice of it and it left Enjolras hoping that he remained unaware.

At one point in the journey, Enjolras had steered his horse next to Grantaire’s after they had fallen out of the brisk gallop they had set, to give both themselves and their horses a much needed rest.

“What did you do with the Prince?” asked Enjolras. For he was convinced that while his mind had been addled, Grantaire was certain to have had the presence of mind to remove Philippe from the corridor and out of plain sight.

Grantaire glanced at him, before his eyes returned to the road stretching before them. The stars were bright tonight, brighter than Enjolras was used to seeing in Paris.

“Stuffed him into a linen cupboard,” said Grantaire and even in the faint light, Enjolras could see the characteristic, sharp twist of his mouth. “I very much hope that he awoke cramped and in severe pain. Though I rather he not wake at all.” 

Enjolras silently agreed.

“If I am to be caught and tried for treason,” went on Grantaire, making Enjolras’ spine stiffen with alarm. “I would have it be worth receiving a death sentence and at least leave this world with the knowledge of having taken the cur with me.”

“Do not speak like this!” Enjolras demanded harshly, his gut wrenching painfully. Further words burned on his tongue, but he did not utter them. _You claimed that you will stay at my side and I have no intention of letting you leave me._

The tone must have alerted Grantaire to his discomfort, or maybe it was the thrumming bond between them. For a moment, Enjolras thought he saw Grantaire’s hand twitch, as if he was about to reach for him, but the touch never came. The notion left Enjolras inexplicably cold and bereft.

“Forgive me,” said Grantaire. “I did not mean to be crass.”

Enjolras said nothing, his thoughts and emotions still too turbulent. He feared he would only end up being needlessly harsh, his temper already close to derailing. Anger was simmering on the surface, attempting to drown out all the things he did not want to examine.

They did not speak again, not even upon their arrival at Arlés, where they rented another filthy room in an inn filled with drunks and cutthroats even at this early an hour. Too exhausted to eat, Enjolras retired straight to the bed in the far corner, furthest from the single window. He listened to Grantaire moving about the room on almost silent feet and tried his best to keep from reaching for the bond.

Even so, it thrummed on, warm and quiet, easing Enjolras into a dreamless sleep.

*

 “Enjolras.”

A hand drifted across his arm, gentle and fleeting even while it lit sparks across his skin.

Enjolras made a soft sound and stirred, feeling as though he had not slept at all. He struggled to open his eyes, squinting past the brightness that reached even this corner of the small room, the sun high in the sky.

He sensed Grantaire before he saw him, instinctively reaching for their bond, before recoiling as awareness cleared the fog of sleep. He turned gritty eyes upon Grantaire, who was crouching by his bedside.

“What time is it?” croaked Enjolras, his throat straining.

Grantaire reached for a pitcher of water on the stained, rickety nightstand and filled a goblet with it, before wordlessly handing it to Enjolras, who took it gratefully.

“Just past one in the afternoon,” said Grantaire, resting an elbow on the grimy sheets. His breath smelled faintly of wine, though his eyes were sharp and clear. “If we leave within the hour, we should be able to reach Montpellier tonight.”

Enjolras drained the goblet, then returned it to the nightstand.

“Do you believe them close on our trail?”

“It is hard to tell,” said Grantaire pensively. “Though it appears that we have successfully eluded them thus far. Once we reach Montpellier, we shall pause to rest for a day or two. We need to rid ourselves of the palace horses and I wish to trade a few things that I liberated from your father before we left.” He absently tapped his fingers against the bed, a habit Enjolras was becoming familiar with and that he’d learned indicated that Grantaire was deep in thought. “And we might need to sell one thing or another. If we are to continue bribing innkeepers, we are sure to run out of money before we reach Paris.”

Enjolras thought of all the gold coins which had passed hands up to now and was once more grateful for Grantaire’s foresight. As a noble and an omega, Enjolras had never so much as handled a single sou before. Of all the things, money had never so much as crossed Enjolras’ mind, a fact which was rather shocking in its naivety. 

“How much were you able to take?”

Grantaire grimaced. “Not as much as I would have liked. A pouch or two of gold, the set of ornate daggers your mother gifted your father with the year before last and his favourite pistol. Hardly enough to defend us should we come across the Queen’s guard.” He paused then, turning suddenly inquisitive eyes on Enjolras. “I have been meaning to ask, have you any training? I know it is hardly part of an omega’s formal education, but I thought…”

Enjolras looked away, his lips thinning as he thought about exactly what type of education he had received.

“I know how to fence,” he said, his voice holding a bitter edge. “Combeferre taught me, much good as it did. My ill reaction to alpha pheromones is rather a hindrance in a fight.”

Grantaire raised a brow. “That is unfortunate, though no reason to give up just yet. It is unlike you to be so easily disheartened. You should leave such cynicism to me.”

Enjolras’ answering scowl was without heat and his words without bite; the corners of his mouth threatened to lift.

“Your resourcefulness is rather intimidating.”

Grantaire’s teeth flashed sharp and white. “I shall take that as a compliment.” With his next words, however, Grantaire’s expression was once more thoughtful. “May I pose a question?”

Enjolras looked up, surprised. “You need not ask my permission, Grantaire,” he said, hating the note of tenderness in his voice. “We are friends, I wish for us to speak freely with each other.”

Grantaire fiddled with the edge of the bedding, though when his gaze rose to meet Enjolras’, it was piecing in its intensity. 

“The alpha pheromones,” he began carefully. “You did not seem similarly affected in my presence.”

Enjolras drew in a startled breath, his chest already thudding with the insistent beat of his heart. Swallowing past the dryness of his throat, Enjolras chose his words with care.

“It is different with you,” he said quietly, swallowing once more as heat rose inside of him beneath Grantaire’s gaze. “Your scent… it is not the same, it does not make me ill.”

The protection bond between them flared slightly, thrumming happily and infusing Enjolras with warmth. He ruthlessly stomped down on it. 

This had to stop. 

But no amount of fighting could keep the lingering pleasure from tingling along Enjolras’ spine. It was utterly infuriating - not to mention bone-deeply frightening.

Grantaire appeared, for a moment, as though he meant to press the subject, though when his eyes flickered across Enjolras’ face, he subsided and remained silent. Enjolras knew not what Grantaire saw in his expression, felt only the air that had been trapped in his lungs release in relief when he rose from his position by Enjolras’ bedside.

“We had best be on our way,” said Grantaire, his gaze now averted.

Enjolras offered no reply, merely hoped that Grantaire was unaware of his eyes following him across the room, unable to part from him just yet.

*

Readying himself for the continuation of their journey was a chore and Enjolras would have liked nothing better than to fall back onto the bed, grimy sheets or no, and sleep for a week.

Grantaire had left the room to give him privacy and Enjolras washed himself with stiff movements, before exchanging his shirt for a fresh one. His hair was a disaster, unkempt and unwashed, the curls hopelessly knotted from remaining unbrushed and stuffed beneath the cap for hours on end. Between being assaulted by Philippe and briefly losing his mind, Enjolras had not thought to pack a hairbrush.

Sullen and angry, Enjolras rummaged about his bag in search of something to tie his hair with and unearthed a string of velvet, which he used to gather his hair into a high ponytail to make it easier to hide beneath the cap, while keeping it in some form of order. He also made a note of purchasing a brush as soon as possible.

Their horses were saddled and ready to depart, most of their bags already secured except for the one Enjolras was carrying. He bound it safely to his saddle, before mounting and steering the mare away from the inn. It was a relief leaving it behind.

His horse, long since accustomed to following Grantaire’s, fell into step as they trotted along the edge of the city and, once they cleared it, they picked up pace. Enjolras’ muscles protested the treatment, but there was nothing for it other than to clench his teeth an soldier through.

It was a clear and sunny day, the bite of the wind soothed by the sun beating down on them. The air tasted of salt and Enjolras licked repeatedly at his lips in an effort to keep them from drying out.

The road they followed was well-paved and busy, though thankfully no one paid them any attention and Enjolras did his best to keep from looking over his shoulder every other minute. Even so, travelling in broad daylight seemed strange now that he had gotten used to empty stretches of land and nothing but trees and shadows for company. It did aid their progress, however, and they covered enough ground to permit themselves - and their horses - a short break.

They stopped in Lunel for dinner, choosing a small tavern filled mostly with rowdy drunks and gamblers; almost all of them alphas apart from a few, scattered betas.  Enjolras wisely kept his cap on as they made their way to a secluded spot, winding in-between tabletops littered with cards, dice and dominoes. A few alphas caught his scent, looking up with interest, though Grantaire’s glare and his secure hold on Enjolras’ arm quickly had them avert their gazes once more.

A few coins bought them a decent enough meal and Grantaire a bottle of wine, which he drank without the aid of a glass. It was only after they had finished eating and once over half of the bottle was gone, that Grantaire addressed him.

“Tell me,” he said. “What darkens the brow of Apollo on such a fine day?”

It was true that Enjolras’ frown had grown increasingly darker these past few hours and the mocking reference hardly helped matters.

“I am no god, Grantaire,” said Enjolras testily.

Grantaire smirked as he took another swig from his wine. “Perhaps not,” he said lightly. “Though should you bother to ask about, more than a few would disagree.”

Enjolras scowled. “My appearance is hardly a defining feature of my character.”

Grantaire put down the bottle and inclined his head. “Forgive a lover of art his indulgence.”

Surprised, Enjolras straightened in his seat, ill mood temporarily forgotten.

“A lover of art you say?” he asked curiously. “Do you create any of your own?”

Grantaire snorted. “Hardly,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “I dabble.”

Interest piqued, Enjolras leaned in closer across the table, disregarding the layer of grime which has turned the top sticky and questionable.

“What do you do?”

“I draw,” said Grantaire, the bitter twist to his mouth giving away his thoughts on the matter. “Sometimes I paint, if time allows it.”

Enjolras wetted his lips. “I would like to see your work.”

“Sometime, perhaps,” said Grantaire, his eyes briefly drawn to Enjolras’ mouth, before he straightened slightly in his seat. He clearly did not wish to expand on the matter. “Now, I believe you were about to tell me of your worries.”

“If I were, I would hardly know where to start.” Enjolras’s scowl returned and he cast a gloomy look upon the filthy tabletop. “I wish I had some way of knowing what is happening at court and how the Queen plans to proceed now that her schemes have been thwarted.” At Grantaire’s raised eyebrow, Enjolras cast a quick look about, before leaning in closer still and lowering his voice to barely above a murmur. “Not long before we departed for Marseille, I came across some interesting news. I happened upon my father and uncle and overheard Ilbert saying that the Queen is ill. That it is also the reason why she pushed so determinedly for the bonding ceremony.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened. “Ill you say? And what is the nature of this sickness?”

Enjolras let loose a frustrated breath. “I don’t know. Though it must be severe if her abdication is imminent. I doubt the Queen would be so eager to pass on the throne to her son if it were not so.”

Grantaire nodded, his fingers absentmindedly tapping the bottle of wine. “I agree. Despite her indulgence towards that cur, she is no fool and Philippe is in no fit state to rule. He is young and unrestrained; the Queen must have hoped him more settled after bonding. If he were to take over now…” Grantaire trailed off and shook his head. “His sister would be a better choice of ruler, but Philippe would never allow it.”

It was true that Philippe’s oldest sister, Sophie, had the potential of becoming a fine Queen - if such a thing was possible. Personally, Enjolras had never supported the idea that one person was to dictate all others and their society was the best example of how such a thing could go very wrong. Monarchy was, at its root, an unjust concept, which could never succeed to bring equal rights to everyone. For such a thing to happen, one must first distribute the power amongst the people themselves, give them a right to voice their opinions and vote for someone to stand up for them.

Still, Grantaire was not wrong. Sophie’s obvious affection for her omega twin, Maximilien, and her interest in omega rights set her far apart from her mother and older brother. She openly supported her twin’s gender and made no secret of her beliefs, a fact which Enjolras valued highly. As an alpha, however, Sophie was discouraged from spending time with the omegas at court and as a result, Enjolras had only ever spoken to her twice - though found himself immediately attached, if only for the fact that she appeared the opposite of her brother Philippe. Maximilien, on the other hand, was mild-mannered and soft-spoken. Enjolras liked him well enough, though the limited time they had spent together had not been enough to coax him into any manner of deeper conversation.

However-

“If Philippe takes the throne as he is now, it will be all the easier to wrestle it from him.” Enjolras could not keep the triumph from his voice, his lips curving in the heat of the debate. “As you said, he is young, inexperienced. If the people shall rise against him, we have a chance of ending this oppression.”

Yet, Grantaire looked not elated, but resigned, causing Enjolras’ brow to once more draw into a frown.

“Enjolras, you speak of Philippe’s youth and inexperience while you disregard your own,” he said softly, his eyes intent. “Do you believe you are the only one who knows all this? The throne will suit Philippe ill, that is no secret. The entire court, if not all of France, _knows this_. Have you any idea how many are already eagerly planning their own coup? Do you believe yourself the only lion lying in wait, ready to pounce as soon as Philippe topples France into disaster?” He leaned in closer, putting most of his weight onto the wine bottle beneath his hand. “If what you say is true and the Queen is indeed ill, then all number of intrigues are already underway - and the Queen is aware of it, why else would she try to hush up her condition.”

Incensed, Enjolras’ own fingers wrapped about the bottle, nailing it firmly in place in case Grantaire thought to take another drink from it. The glass was warm to the touch, heated by Grantaire’s hand.

“You may call me a fool all you want-” hissed Enjolras.

“I do not think you a fool,” cut in Grantaire. “Merely naive and impulsive. It is fire that you are playing with and one small mistake will see you burned.”

Enjolras fought to keep his temper, though it was a losing battle. “I would rather burn than live even one more day as I have these past years!” he bit out, barely managing to control the volume of his voice. “And I will be damned if I am to idly sit by when finally I have the freedom to bring about the changes I so longed for.”

Grantaire shook his head once more. “Freedom is but an illusion,” he said. “None of us possess it.”

Enjolras dug his fingers into the bottle. “It is such a mindset which robs you of it,” he declared fiercely. “Every one of us is entitled to it and together we shall achieve it!”

Grantaire let loose a sigh and released the bottle. “It is your right to do as you will, I cannot stop you,” he said grimly. “All I ask is for you to exercise some caution while you do so.”

Enjolras tilted up his chin, defiant. “There is no progress without risk.”

Grantaire cast upon him a grave look. “And too much risk will bereave you of a chance to enact progress.”

*

They reached Montpellier in silence, late that night. 

His conversation with Grantaire had put Enjolras into a brooding mood and he spent the rest of their journey silently turning over each and every point. He longed, now more than ever, for the presence of Combeferre, wishing to discuss with him what he had learned.

When Enjolras finally dismounted, he was certain his thighs would never recover. He was unused to exercise, especially in the form of such ruthlessness as he had experienced since fleeing the palace in Marseille.

Grantaire seemed to be fairing much better, though Enjolras was hardly surprised. After all, the position of a manservant to one of the nobles of Versailles was not an easy task and required a lot of endurance and leg work. In contrast, Enjolras had only ever been herded from one room to the next and forced into endless hours of inactivity. The only exercise he had received to this day was of the mind and the occasional excursion on horseback if the weather was fine enough. This was an entirely different story.

Exhaustion running so deeply Enjolras was convinced it reached to his very soul, he fell upon the closest bed as soon as they entered their room for the night. He raised an arm which felt as though it was crafted from lead and tugged the cap off his tangled hair. It fell to the floor, never quite making it to the bedside table where Enjolras had intended for it to go.

Grantaire came to stand at his bedside, regarding Enjolras with an expression which managed to look both concerned and distantly amused. Thankfully, he did not expand on the matter. Wordlessly, he took hold of first one than the other of Enjolras’ boots and expertly slid them off his aching feet. Enjolras let loose a faint sound, equal parts relief and protest, at which Grantaire huffed a quiet laugh.

“Not a word,” said Enjolras indignantly.

“I would not dare,” said Grantaire, clearly amused, as he neatly put aside Enjolras’ boots.

Enjolras scowled at him, though not even his facial muscles felt quite up to the task. Grantaire’s expression visibly softened.

“I shall fetch us something to eat,” he said.

Once again, Enjolras thought he saw Grantaire’s hands twitch as though they meant to reach for him, but the movement was aborted before it could be completed. Something tugged at their connection, the thread going taunt for a brief, heart-stopping moment before Enjolras’ own hand extended, instinctive and without thought. When their fingers brushed, it was much the same as the first time, though with the added intensity of the protection bond the contact was no longer simple fire, but a bolt of lightning. The bond hummed happily and Enjolras’ mind buzzed right alongside it.

Grantaire’s fingers squeezed his, then abruptly released him once more. The shock of their broken contact returned Enjolras’ senses and heat of both embarrassment and anger shot into his cheeks. Why did his body have to insist on shaming him this way? What was the reason behind these strange, new-found sensations?

“Thank you,” said Enjolras, proud that it emerged stiff rather than strangled.

Grantaire’s face was shuttered now, any amusement gone and his expression one of familiar blandness as he inclined his head to Enjolras. It was a sign of respect Enjolras did not feel he deserved and was ill equipped to return in his current state. His head spun with exhaustion and the lingering feeling of Grantaire’s touch.

So confused was he, that he almost repeated his mistake when Grantaire turned to go, only barely keeping his hand to himself this time.

When Grantaire returned some time later, Enjolras had wormed his way beneath the grubby sheets and had turned his back on the room. He did not stir at the soft call of his name, willing his breaths to continue in the even pattern of sleep. Beneath the thin duvet, Enjolras’s fingers pressed against the wall as though the unyielding feel of it was enough to chase away the memory of Grantaire’s skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional notes:
> 
> The route Enjolras and Grantaire travel is real - or at least as real as I can make it considering I've never been to France and that this story is set in an alternate reality sometime around 1828. Up to now, it's as follows: Marseille - 56 miles (90.7km) - Arlés - 50.6 miles (81.5km) - Montpellier.   
> According to [this post](http://www.wwwestra.com/horses/history_travel.htm) a healthy horse can travel between 50 and 60 miles a day, presuming it's travelling on a properly paved road, which I'm assuming is the case here. I've never been good with maths, so pls excuse any strange calculations on my part, I'm trying my best XD.
> 
> I've tried reading up on currencies and money, but to be quite honest, it just gave me a headache, so I'm mostly playing it by ear. However, I found [this](http://chanvrerie.net/history/units-of-measure-en/) interesting post about units of measure/money etc in the brick, so I thought I'd leave this here.
> 
> Also, the royal family: This will come up in further detail in the story, but I thought I'd just give you a vague overview. I'm working with a growing family/relationship tree myself, bc stuff like that is the nightmare of every author of a historic fic (and that's not even going into detail about all the plot-details about evil schemes and revolutionary plans XD).  
> Anyway, Queen Anette and Princess Marguerite have 5 children - Philippe, Sophie & Maximilen (the twins), Julien and Marie.  
> Enjolras' parents are Lucien and Cecile and Enjolras' uncle, as has been mentioned in this chapter, is Ilbert.
> 
> In case it wasn't clear: A protection bond isn't permanent and made by the alpha sucking a mark into the omega's skin (like a hickey). A mating bond is more or less unbreakable and created by the alpha through biting (has to break the skin). The only location where either of these can work, are the omega's scent glands on their neck.   
> Everyone (alphas, betas, omegas) has scent glands on the left side of their neck.
> 
> Right, I'll stop here XD. As always, if you have any questions etc, just drop me a line ^^. You are all, of course, also very welcome on [my tumblr](http://mornmeril.tumblr.com) :).

**Author's Note:**

> As you might have noticed, this is not 100% historically correct, seeing as it's set in a universe I created myself. As I'll be using the terms 'Monsieur', 'Madame' etc I didn't want to use 'my Lord' for the nobility and as far as I could find, 'Mon Seigneur' should function well enough as translation. If it seems weird to any French speakers, I'm sorry! I did my best XD.
> 
> I am also aware that most palaces are located in and around Paris, so I claim creative licence for the Queen's sudden, random summer residence in Marseille. Until the next part <3!


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